PRIDE   OF 


Hrtsw?'* 


GUSTAF  JANSON 


1 


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DEC  7 


i  7  1924 
OCT  2  0  1924 


I    .        MAIN  LOA^  DESK 


SEP 


A.M 


•'ED 


1964 


P.M. 


7j«i9'10lllll2  H2I3I4I5I6.I 


3-mlO,'19 


PRIDE   OF   WAR 


PRIDE  OF  WAR 


BY 

GUSTAF     JANSON 


3  o 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE 

SWEDISH  ORIGINAL 

"  LOGNERNA  " 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN  AND  COMPANY 

1912 


•PT 
91 5? 


CONTENTS 


PACE 


I.  THE  ANARCHIST  ....        1 

II.  HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  .  61 

III.  THE  VICTOR'S  MEED  .  ,  .  .97 

IV.  THE  FANTASIA  .  .  .  .  .121 
V.  FEVER    .           .  .  .  .  .239 

VI.  LIES        .            .  .  .  .250 

VII.  A  VISION  OF  THE  FUTURE  .  .  .    338 


PRIDE    OF    WAR 


THE   ANARCHIST 

2:  3  ¥  3  O 

'  ANARCHIST  ! '  replied  Alfonso  Zirilli  to  the  question  of 
the  non-commissioned  officer. 

All  the  men  in  the  ranks  stretched  their  necks 
and  stared  at  their  bold  comrade.  Those  who  knew 
Alfonso  already,  smiled  approvingly ;  the  rest  shook 
their  heads  or  opened  their  mouths  in  astonishment. 
All  of  them  silently  wondered  what  punishment  would 
be  meted  out  to  the  conscript.  The  expression  on  the 
face  of  the  sergeant  scarcely  changed.  He  had  heard 
the  same  answer  often  before,  although  never,  perhaps, 
given  with  such  open  malignity.  His  glance  lingered 
a  moment  longer  than  necessary  on  Alfonso  Zirilli. 
If  there  were  anything  to  be  read  there,  it  was  a 
mingling  of  contempt  and  pity. 

Alfonso  stood  before  him  stooping,  his  whole 
bearing  as  unsoldierly  as  possible.  He  felt  a  little 
afraid  of  this  cold  tranquillity ;  but  rage  and  anger  still 
held  in  him  the  upper  hand. 

'  I  did  not  ask  for  your  opinions/  said  the  sergeant 


2  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

with  ironical  distinctness,  '  but  for  your  occupation.' 
And  then  he  added  sharply,  '  What  are  you  ?  ' 

'  From  to-day  apprentice  to  Murder,'  came  Alfonso's 
answer  quickly,  in  a  tone  of  obstinate  defiance.  He 
hated  war  and  the  soldier's  vocation,  and  by  Heaven, 
he  would  make  no  secret  of  his  feelings.  But  now  that 
the  longed-for  opportunity  had  arrived  openly  to 
express  his  abhorrence,  he  felt  no  joy.  In  place  of  any 
satisfaction  in  the  execution  of  this  deed  of  heroism 
round  which  his  thoughts  for  weeks  had  revolved,  he 
felt  only  a  cowardly  dread.  His  knees  shook  with  fear 
of  the  awful  consequences  of  his  temerity. 

The  sergeant  merely  nodded.  But  he  invested  this 
simple  movement  with  such  a  threatening  air  that 
Alfonso's  blood  ran  cold.  The  non-commissioned 
officer  then  turned  to  the  next  conscript  and  renewed 
his  questions.  But  so  long  as  the  inspection  lasted 
he  threw  occasional  glances  at  Alfonso.  His  mien 
and  bearing  expressed  more  clearly  than  words : 
'  We  have  means  for  making  people  of  this  sort  more 
tractable  !  Just  wait,  my  lad  !  .  .  .'  One  by  one  he 
went  down  the  line  of  the  recruits ;  asked  questions 
and  compared  the  answers  with  the  list  he  held  in  his 
hand.  They  were  poor  stuff  to  make  soldiers  of,  as  they 
always  were  in  this  district.  Untameable,  violent,  and 
cunning  when  they  first  served  with  the  colours : 
suitable  treatment  and  a  firm  hand  had  usually  changed 
them  into  tolerable  soldiers.  The  officers  and  non- 
commissioned officers  of  this  company  were  chosen  with 
particular  care  ;  they  had  handled  this  same  raw 
material  for  ten  years  and  knew  what  was  to  be  made 
of  it.  Again  the  sergeant  looked  at  Alfonso,  and, 
although  he  stood  more  than  ten  paces  away,  his 


THE  ANARCHIST  3 

glance  told  like  a  lash,  and  wakened  a  feeling  of 
uncertainty  and  anxiety  in  more  than  one  of  those 
who  saw  it. 

Alfonso  Zirilli  stood  at  the  extremity  of  the  right 
wing,  surly  and  morose,  his  head  sunk  between  his 
shoulders.  He  had  been  stupid  to  answer  so  unre- 
servedly :  he  saw  it  now.  But  had  they  not  all  of  them 
sworn  to  answer  in  a  loud,  distinct  voice, '  Anarchist '  ? 
When  they  left  the  town  they  swore  a  solemn  oath 
to  stand  by  each  other.  No  cowardly  evasions,  no 
false  compromise,  only  the  pure  strong  truth.  How 
their  eyes  had  shone,  how  their  cheeks  had  glowed, 
as  through  their  clenched  teeth  they  made  their  vows  ! 
'  Anarchist '  shall  ring  from  mouth  to  mouth.  '  Anar- 
chist '  and  nothing  further.  Thus  they  would  declare 
war  on  war.  And  there  stood  that  fat  dumpling, 
Ambrogio  Lorte,  and  said,  quite  peaceably,  '  Printer  ' ! 
Giovanni  Feretto  almost  whispered  his  '  Factory- 
hand  '  !  His  fellows  in  the  printing-works  shall  learri 
what  a  miserable  worm  their  Ambrogio  is.  In  the 
factory  they  would  know  how  to  treat  Giovanni.  .  .  . 
The  sergeant's  eye  glanced  quietly  and  meditatively 
over  Alfonso,  and  the  latter  thought  bitterly  what  a  fool 
he  had  been  to  volunteer  to  be  the  first.  The  others 
had  all  followed  the  example  of  Ambrogio  and  Gio- 
vanni. Their  opinions  were  not  worth  a  centesimo,  and 
whoever  paid  as  much  for  their  strength  of  character 
made  a  bad  bargain. 

'  Wretched  creatures  ! — cowards  ! '  thought  Alfonso, 
disgusted. 

Well,  he  would  find  a  spare  moment  in  which  to 
talk  to  these  weaklings  face  to  face.  He  would  give 
it  to  them.  .  .  . 

B  2 


4  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

The  sergeant  turned  his  eyes  again  in  his  direc- 
tion, and  Alfonso's  head  drooped  thoughtfully. 
What  did  the  fellow  mean  by  continually  looking 
at  him  ?  Had  he  become  angry,  had  he  scolded,  or,  as 
Alfonso  hoped,  let  himself  into  an  argument  with  him, 
it  would  have  been  an  easy  matter  to  demonstrate  how 
misguided  were  the  other's  preconceived  notions  and 
ideas.  But  he  was  silent,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
passed  on.  Alfonso's  thoughts  took  a  new  turn. 
Perhaps  it  would  not  be  so  easy,  after  all,  to  make  a 
propaganda  of  his  ideas.  And  now  he  had  drawn 
attention  to  himself,  had  stuck  his  head  in  a  noose,  and 
awakened  the  suspicion  of  the  enemy.  Alfonso  Zirilli 
bit  his  lips  in  perplexity.  Had  he,  the  cunning  one, 
behaved  like  a  fool  ? 

The  voice  of  the  sergeant  rang  out,  short,  sharp, 
and  penetrating,  over  the  parade-ground.  The  men  in 
the  squad  "obeyed  involuntarily  and  held  themselves 
straighten 

'  Right  turn  ! ' 

Alfonso  stubbornly  made  a  left  turn.  He  would  show 
the  cowards  that  he  had  not  yet  given  up  the  game. 

The  sergeant  controlled  his  vexation ;  went  quietly 
up  to  Alfonso,  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  along 
the  lines.  His  comrades  stole  a  glance  at  him  as  he 
passed.  Most  of  their  eyes  expressed  sympathy,  but 
at  the  back  of  some  of  them  fear  could  be  read. 

'  You  are  stupid ! '  said  the  sergeant,  loud  enough 
for  all  to  hear;  '  you  shall  go  behind.'  He  flung  him, 
without  consideration,  to  the  rear,  and  left  him  to  his 
fate.  To  a  corporal,  who  had  kept  pace  with  him  on 
the  other  side  of  the  ranks  and  who  now  advanced,  he 
said : 


THE  ANARCHIST  5 

'  Keep  an  eye  on  this  fellow !  he  is  good  for 
nothing  !  ' 

Alfonso  ground  his  teeth.  He  was  humiliated 
before  his  comrades ;  snatched  from  the  position  that 
was  his  by  right.  He,  Alfonso  the  clever,  was  over- 
thrown and  brought  to  shame.  The  colour  came  and 
went  in  his  cheeks ;  the  sweat  stood  in  drops  on  his 
forehead.  Alfonso  began  to  perceive  how  difficult 
it  was  to  resist  the  force  in  whose  power  he  was. 

'  By  the  right ! — quick  march  ! '  commanded  the 
sergeant. 

The  forty  men  set  themselves  simultaneously  in 
motion.  Giovanni  Feretto,  who  led,  now  that  Alfonso 
had  lost  his  place,  held  himself  erect  and  marched  like 
a  soldier. 

Alfonso  desired  more  than  ever  to  expose  their 
perfidy.  He  bit  his  teeth  together  so  sharply  that  it 
hurt,  and  as  the  others  began  with  the  left  foot  he  put 
out  his  right.  Alfonso  Zirilli  is  not  so  easily  overcome  ! 

But  in  an  instant  the  corporal  was  at  his  side.  A 
gentle  kick  reminded  Alfonso  of  his  mistake.  He  stared 
at  the  corporal.  If  they  called  him  stupid,  why  should 
he  not  take  the  advantage  this  gave  him  ? 

The  corporal  shook  his  head.  His  faithful  dog-like 
eyes  looked  at  Alfonso  with  genuine  sympathy. 

'  The  other  foot ! '  he  whispered. 

Alfonso  pretended  to  be  deaf. 

'  The  other  foot ! '  again — this  time  somewhat  im- 
patiently. And,  as  Alfonso  would  not  yet  understand, 
he  added  :  '  It  is  not  good  to  be  too  stupid  ! ' 

A  secret  threat  sounded  in  these  words,  so  that 
Alfonso  deemed  it  wiser  at  last  to  obey. 

The  troop  marched  into  the  barrack-yard  and  drew 


6  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

up  at  one  side.  Several  such  groups  were  already 
standing  there,  each  led  by  a  non-commissioned  officer. 
Upon  and  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  which  led  to  the  main 
building  were  gathered  the  officers.  At  the  top  stood 
the  colonel ;  next  him,  the  commanders  of  battalions 
and  companies ;  while  the  officers  of  lower  ranks 
formed  a  wide  circle  around  these.  They  laughed  and 
chatted,  without  taking  any  notice  of  the  conscripts. 

Alfonso  looked  at  them  from  where  he  stood.  These, 
then,  were  the  gentlemen  who  held  his  fate  in  their 
hands.  They  governed  his  actions,  his  time,  his 
speech.  .  .  . 

'  Yes ! '  growled  Alfonso,  lowering  his  head 
defiantly,  '  we  will  see  who  gets  the  best  of  it.' 

The  officers  separated  themselves  into  groups  and 
distributed  themselves  over  the  courtyard.  A  tall 
captain  and  two  lieutenants  approached  the  troop  in 
which  Alfonso  had  the  last  place. 

'  Our  commander  !  '  thought  Alfonso,  and  stole  a 
glance  at  him.  Beneath  the  plumed  hat  he  saw  a  hard, 
rigid  face  that  might  have  been  carved  in  wood,  a  very 
short,  blunt  nose,  and  a  heavy  pitch-black  moustache 
whose  ends  were  elegantly  curled.  The  ears  stood  out 
like  bats'  wings  from  a  head  which  in  proportion  to  the 
body  was  ridiculously  small.  But  the  eyes  interested 
Alfonso  most  of  all.  He  observed  as  the  captain 
came  nearer  that  they  were  large,  almost  perfectly 
circular  and  without  a  trace  of  expression.  They 
reminded  one  of  clean-washed  china,  so  bright  and 
shiny  were  they.  This,  then,  was  the  man  to  whom  his 
military  education  was  entrusted.  Alfonso  wished 
for  some  surer  token  than  the  cold,  indifferent  glance 
of  these  dead  eyes. 


THE  ANARCHIST  7 

'  Anything  special  to  report  ?  '  asked  the  captain  in 
a  soft  voice  as  he  came  up  to  the  sergeant.  With  his 
right  hand  fixed  to  the  rim  of  his  cap,  the  subordinate 
made  his  report.  He  spoke  so  softly  that  Alfonso  could 
not  understand  a  word.  But  the  captain,  whose  gaze 
wandered  indifferently  along  the  lines,  suddenly  fixed 
his  attention  on  the  end  of  the  outside  wing,  and  Alfonso 
knew  that  now  he  was  being  spoken  of.  Involuntarily 
he  pulled  himself  up  like  the  others  and,  imitating  the 
upright  carriage  of  the  sergeant,  stood  to  attention. 

The  captain  nodded,  raised  his  hand  to  his  hat,  and 
commanded  a  turn.  Alfonso  responded  smartly  to 
the  command,  and  at  the  word  '  march  '  he  began 
with  the  left  foot  first. 

The  corporal,  who  had  paid  particular  attention 
to  him,  smiled  approvingly. 

After  a  little  while  they  were  drawn  up  in  two  lines. 
Alfonso  stood  behind  a  farmer,  whose  clothes  still 
diffused  the  pungent  odour  of  the  homely  cow-stall. 
On  his  left  he  had  a  little  undersized  man  he  had  never 
seen  before ;  on  his  right  stood  the  comrades  in  whose 
company  he  had  that  day  arrived.  As  he  stood 
squeezed  in  between  these  people,  all  taking  pains  to 
listen  and  understand  properly,  Alfonso  noticed  that 
he  lost  a  part  of  his  will-power.  His  stubbornness 
became  uncertainty.  He  squinted  first  to  one  side 
and  then  to  the  other,  to  read  the  faces  of  his  com- 
panions. He  on  the  left  was  stupidly  attentive ;  he  on 
the  right,  likewise.  A  new  thought  came  into  his  head  : 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  climb  down  now  right  at  the 
beginning  ?  The  next  instant  he  clenched  his  teeth 
again.  Little  did  they  know  Alfonso  Zirilli.  Did  not 
the  anarchist  prefer  imprisonment  to  submission  ? 


8  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

To  be  sure,  he  would  rather  avoid  them  both.  He  had 
already  perceived  that  here  a  little  foresight  was 
necessary.  Apparent  obedience  and  secret  revolt 
was  his  programme  for  the  present. 

When  the  articles  of  clothing  belonging  to  the  uni- 
form were  distributed,  Alfonso  happened  to  be  on  the 
spot  and  was  lucky  enough  to  obtain  clothes  that  were 
new  and  clean.  As  soon  as  he  had  changed,  he 
examined  his  appearance  with  pleasure.  His  tunic 
sat  on  him  as  if  it  had  been  poured  on  his  body,  and 
his  trousers  fell  in  innumerable  folds  over  his  gaiters. 

'  Corpo  di  Bacco  ! '  he  grunted,  well  pleased.  He 
was  a  well-built  fellow  and  the  uniform  became  him. 
Alfonso  already  began  to  think  of  the  impression  it 
would  make  on  a  visit  home ;  he  knew  how  the  girls 
appreciated  the  glitter  and  colour  of  a  uniform.  In- 
voluntarily he  gave  his  hat  a  slight  push  so  that  it  sat 
a  little  on  one  side,  and  then  a  further  adjustment 
brought  it  well  over  one  ear.  Alfonso  smiled,  and 
imagined  already  a  meeting  with  the  graceful  Anarella. 
If  he  were  to  approach  her  now,  surely  she  would  no 
longer  threaten  him  with  her  nails  ! 

That  night  Alfonso  Zirilli  slept  with  a  feeling  of 
insecurity — till  then  unknown  to  him  ;  as  if  a  sort  of 
change  was  going  on  in  him.  .  .  . 

Waking  next  morning,  strengthened  in  mind  and 
body,  it  was  clear  to  him  that  he  must  be  reasonable. 
Any  attempt  to  obtain  converts  to  his  ideas  was  here 
out  of  place,  and  his  hatred  for  the  rottenness  of  Society 
would  be  best  kept  to  himself.  It  would  pay  to  keep 
his  mouth  shut,  to  sham  submission,  and  make  the  best 
of  what  could  not  be  avoided.  A  year  is  soon  over  ; 
and,  while  it  lasted,  he  was  a  soldier ;  afterwards,  an 


THE  ANARCHIST  9 

anarchist    once    more.    Alfonso     was    pleased    with 
himself. 

But  the  mistake  he  had  already  made  brought  its 
own  punishment.  The  commander  of  his  company, 
Captain  Manlio  Vitale,  was  a  soldier  to  his  finger-tips. 
He  embraced  his  vocation  with  a  truly  religious 
enthusiasm ;  he  loved  his  soldiers  as  if  they  were  his 
own  children,  and  fostered  the  firm  resolve  to  bring 
them  up  as  veritable  warriors.  When  Alfonso  Zirilli's 
answer  was  reported  to  him,  he  smacked  his  lips  and 
smiled. 

'  Ha  !  .  .  .  Anarchist  .  .  .  indeed  ?  Excellent,  Ser- 
geant Lucinello  ! — excellent ! '  In  the  china-bright  eyes 
there  was  no  expression;  but  the  mighty  moustache 
bristled  like  the  whiskers  of  a  lion  who  scents  his  prey 
in  the  distance.  '  I  will  talk  to  Lieutenant  Bianchelli 
about  it.  You,  for  your  part,  give  Corporal  Lantori  a 
hint.  He  must  not  let  the  fellow  out  of  his  sight.  Ha  ! 
Anarchist !  .  .  .  Excellent !  I  say.  Excellent !  .  .  .  ' 

The  stout  little  sergeant  gazed  in  admiration  at  his 
gigantic  superior.  He  knew  what  it  meant  when 
the  captain's  moustache  bristled.  Alfonso,  too,  found 
out  soon  enough. 

Although  he  did  his  drills  in  every  way  as  well  as 
the  others,  Corporal  Lantori  was  always  at  hand  to 
find  some  fault  in  him.  He  was  ordered  out  of  the 
ranks  to  march  up  and  down  the  sunny  barrack-yard  ; 
was  tormented  with  fatigue  duties  and  punishment 
drills.  Alfonso  was  strong  enough  to  stand  it.  But,  as 
he  was  the  only  one  in  the  company  who  was  baited 
in  this  way,  he  began  to  lose  patience.  Did  they 
refuse  to  see  the  proffered  hand  ?  Were  they  playing 
with  his  good  intentions  ?  However  firmly  he  had 


io  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

resolved  to  suppress  his  animosity,  it  surged  up  again  ; 
and,  when  the  corporal  one  day  called  him  a  donkey, 
he  could  no  longer  contain  himself.  He  answered 
back,  and  was  told  to  hold  his  tongue.  The  next 
instant  the  quarrel  was  at  its  height.  Half  an  hour 
later  Alfonso  was  given  the  opportunity  to  set  in  order 
his  meditations  on  the  subject  of  his  experiences. 

With  his  head  on  his  hand  he  sat  in  the  dark  on  a 
wooden  form  and  pondered  until  his  head  ached.  The 
deliberate  manner  in  which  his  wordy  defence  was  cut 
short  right  at  the  beginning  pointed  his  way  unmis- 
takably. Alfonso  bit  his  lips  till  they  bled.  But  his 
pliant  southern  nature  soon  overcame  both  rage  and 
spite.  He  saw  his  powerlessness,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  He  must  endure  and  wait,  and  keep  his 
mouth  shut. 

Alfonso  became  docile.  He  even  tried  what  lip- 
service  and  flattery  could  achieve.  This  made  an 
impression  on  Lieutenant  Bianchelli.  He  often  had  a 
friendly  smile  or  an  approving  nod  for  the  most  im- 
possible soldier.  His  comrades,  on  the  other  hand, 
treated  him  with  a  superiority  that  wounded  him. 

'  Alfonso  is  really  a  fool ! '  was  the  opinion  of  the 
somewhat  limited  Giovanni,  who  for  years  had  looked 
up  to  the  person  named  with  admiration.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  whistled  contemptuously. 

Ambrogio  shook  his  head  and  declared  that  he  had 
long  since  noticed  it.  And  Sergeant  Lucinello  and 
Corporal  Lantori  had  often  asserted  the  same  thing. 
They  were  men  of  experience  who  could  judge  a  man's 
worth. 

Alfonso  restrained  his  impetuosity.  He  sweated 
in  the  barrack-yard,  and  performed  all  the  exercises 


THE  ANARCHIST  u 

smarter  than  anyone  else.  Behind  his  back,  the  lieu- 
tenant in  charge  of  the  section  smiled  doubtfully — this 
Zirilli  was  as  pliant  as  wax ;  Sergeant  Lucinello  had 
exaggerated.  The  lieutenant  straightened  himself  and 
went  up  to  Captain  Vitale. 

The  tall  captain  stood  right  in  the  heat  of  the  sun 
and  watched  the  different  squads  around  him.  Nothing 
escaped  his  piercing  eye.  The  harsh  clamour  of  the 
words  of  command  was  a  joy  to  him  ;  with  pleasure 
his  little  round  nostrils  breathed  in  this  atmosphere 
laden  with  dust  and  sweat.  When  the  lieutenant 
imparted  to  him  his  opinion  of  Zirilli,  the  captain 
laughed  noisily. 

'  Anarchist ! — listen  !  I  know  the  tribe ;  I've  studied 
them.  Nowadays,  unfortunately,  only  too  frequent. 
But  I  will  knock  the  nonsense  out  of  them.  Perhaps 
you  think  I  did  not  know  that  there  are  several  of  the 
same  sort  in  the  company  ?  Yes,  my  dear  Bianchelli, 
several  .  .  .  seven  or  eight.  But  I  will  hammer  them 
flat ;  I  will  squeeze  their  brains  dry.  And  when  that  is 
attained,  I  will  cram  them  with  military  ideas/  His 
bearing  became  even  stiffer  ;  his  chest  expanded,  and 
he  breathed  deep.  '  I  will  transform  them  into  good 
soldiers  ' — he  struck  the  open  palm  of  his  left  hand 
with  his  clenched  right — '  do  you  hear  ? — good 
soldiers  ! ' 

The  lieutenant  looked  up  at  his  superior.  He 
could  not  stand  up  to  these  shining  but  expressionless 
eyes ;  involuntarily  he  felt  himself  impressed  by  the 
weight  and  power  of  this  gigantic  figure.  If  anyone 
was  in  a  position  to  transform  men,  this  was  the  man 
to  do  it. 

'  You  are  not  military  enough,   Bianchelli,'   the 


12  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

captain  continued,  wrinkling  his  brows.  '  You  imagine 
— I  don't  know  what !  Yes,  my  dear  Bianchelli,  you 
think  too  much  !  It  is  a  bad  habit ;  get  rid  of  it,  or 
you'll  never  be  a  good  officer.  You  busy  yourself 
with — yes,  what  do  you  busy  yourself  with  ?  No  need 
to  answer,  none  required.  But  think  of  your  pro- 
motion !  of  the  reputation  of  the  regiment !  of  your 
colours  !  Everything  else  is  no  concern  of  a  genuine 
officer.  And  cultivate  a  little  reserve — a  little  reserve, 
I  say  !  Apply  yourself  to  everything  that  strengthens 
the  military  spirit  .  .  .  yes,  that's  it  ...  the  military 
spirit.  That  is  all-important ! '  From  an  immea- 
surable height  Captain  Vitale  looked  down  on  the 
lieutenant,  whom  he  suspected  of  wasting  his  time 
with  book-reading.  And  probably  books,  too,  of 
whose  contents  the  captain  would  not  approve. 

Lieutenant  Bianchelli  was  silent.  It  was  useless  to 
discuss  such  questions  with  the  giant.  One  that 
boasted  he  never  opened  a  book  or  looked  at  a  news- 
paper. .  .  .  '  I  am  a  soldier  and  nothing  else  ! '  was  a 
standing  phrase  of  Captain  Vitale's.  '  Ask  me  anything 
about  the  Service  and  I  will  give  you  an  answer.  The 
rest  doesn't  concern  me.'  The  lieutenant  did  not 
quite  succeed  in  suppressing  a  slight  sigh  as  he 
thought  who  the  man  was. 

'  As  for  this  Zirilli,  I  have  not  picked  him  out,  he 
has  offered  himself,'  continued  Captain  Vitale  ;  '  when 
the  others  see  how  he  is  treated,  they  will  soon  lie  down. 
So  much  sense  they  have  got,  although  it  is  a  pretty 
set  of  cattle  this  time  for  us  to  make  men  of.  But 
Zirilli,  I  will  work  into — into  dough,  into  fine  white 
dough.'  The  captain  bent  down  to  the  lieutenant, 
blew  his  garlic-scented  breath  in  his  face,  and 


THE  ANARCHIST  13 

added  proudly  :  '  And  when  that  is  done,  I  will  bake 
an  excellent  soldier  out  of  this  lump  of  dough.  Eh  ! 
Bianchelli,  do  you  hear — an  excellent  soldier  ! '  Captain 
Vitale  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  majestic  height,  and 
looked  down  triumphantly  on  the  little  and,  in  his 
opinion,  sadly  unmilitary  lieutenant. 

From  his  place  in  the  rank  and  file  Alfonso  had  stolen 
an  occasional  look  at  the  two  officers.  He  surmised 
intuitively  that  they  were  talking  of  him.  As  he  saw 
the  lieutenant  move  away  from  the  tall  captain  he 
sighed  involuntarily.  Captain  Vitale  was  big  and 
strong,  and  knew  what  he  was  about ;  the  lieutenant 
was  helpless,  weak,  and  irresolute. 

Alfonso  forgot  for  an  instant  to  pay  strict  attention. 
Corporal  Lantori  was  at  his  side  in  a  flash,  calling 
Heaven  and  all  the  saints  to  witness  that  there  never 
was  such  an  impossible  recruit.  From  the  right  came 
Sergeant  Lucinello  with  elephantine  strides.  He 
held  his  hands  clasped  on  his  belly,  and  shook  his  head 
in  distress.  From  the  other  side  approached  Lieutenant 
Bianchelli.  His  eyes  were  no  longer  kind :  they  stared 
gloomily  and  reproachfully  at  the  offender.  Farther 
away,  like  a  bronze  statue,  stood  Captain  Vitale.  His 
large  eyes,  that  never  reflected  any  internal  excitement, 
shone  like  metal  in  the  sunlight ;  but  the  bulging  muscles, 
the  colossal  figure,  expressed  threatening  contempt. 

Captain  Vitale  passed  down  the  lines  with  long 
strides. 

'  Method  is  everything,  Bianchelli,'  he  said,  half 
aloud.  '  Method,  corporal ! ' 

'  Yes,  captain  ! '  Lantori's  right  hand  flew  to  his 
hat-brim. 

'  Take  this  man — isn't  his  name  Zirilli  ? — and  drill 


14  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

him  in  the  rifle  exercise.     If  he  cannot  learn,  he  must 
practise  during  the  dinner-hour.     Quick  march  ! ' 

Alfonso  followed  the  corporal  until  they  halted  in 
the  middle  of  the  yard.  There  he  stood  upright  and 
stiff  in  the  heat  of  the  sun,  and  ten,  twenty,  thirty  times 
in  succession  he  practised  '  shoulder  arms  '  and  '  order 
arms.'  The  corporal  was  untiring ;  he  shouted  the 
words  of  command  without  a  break,  wiping  every  now 
and  then  the  sweat  from  his  forehead.  He  was 
furious  with  the  blockhead  who  caused  him  this  extra 
work,  and  by  Heaven  he  would  not  spare  him. 

'  Order  arms  ! — smarter  !  Shoulder  arms  ! — hang 
it,  get  a  move  on  !  Quicker  !  .  .  .  quicker  !  Shoulder 
arms  !  Order  arms  ! — smarter  !  Again  ! ' 

Captain  Vitale  kept  his  back  to  them  the  whole 
time ;  but  they  knew  that  he  would  turn  as  quick  as 
lightning  if  the  corporal  had  granted  himself  or  the 
recruit  a  second's  rest. 

On  the  night  of  such  a  day,  Alfonso,  as  he  drew  the 
bed-cover  over  him,  could  have  bitten  his  teeth  like 
a  madman  in  the  hem  of  the  coarse  material.  Had 
his  comrades  not  been  such  servile  creatures,  he 
might  have  made  an  attempt  to  rouse  them.  But 
no,  he  did  not  dare.  The  arrest,  the  punishment 
drill,  and  the  fatigue  duty  dismayed  him.  He  could 
no  longer  avoid  his  fate;  he  would  be  crushed 
and  pounded ;  would  be  remoulded ;  would  become 
another  being. 

'  I  will  not ! '  he  cried ;  '  I  will  not !  ...  Will  not ! 
.  .  .'  He  trembled  with  suppressed  anger,  threw  himself 
restlessly  from  side  to  side,  and  then  suddenly  slept — to 
dream  of  the  Revolution,  the  necessity  of  which  he  now 
saw  clearer  than  ever.  He  waded  up  to  his  knees  in 


THE  ANARCHIST  15 

blood ;  men,  women,  and  children  doubled  up  in  death- 
agony  before  his  eyes ;  and  a  shiver  ran  down  his  back. 
He  awoke  perspiring,  and  looked  around  with  eyes  grown 
big  with  terror  of  the  unavoidable.  Was  he  on  the 
point  of  going  mad  ?  Or  was  he  in  hell  ?  In  the 
prevailing  darkness  he  could  distinguish  nothing.  But 
he  could  hear.  All  around  was  the  noise  of  heavy- 
breathing  sleepers  ;  long  drawn-out  snores  or  broken 
smothered  sounds ;  .  .  .  here  and  there  one  groaned  in 
his  sleep  or  babbled  some  incomprehensible  words  ; 
farther  away  he  seemed  to  hear  a  faint  sound  of 
strangely  broken  lamentation,  and  quite  close  to  him 
huddled  a  figure  in  unutterable  torments.  He  was 
among  the  damned ;  he  was  himself  damned.  A  deep 
sigh  fought  its  way  out  of  his  contracted  breast.  It 
almost  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  unconscious  sorrow  of 
all  these  men  was  borne  by  him — the  only  waker 
among  the  sleepers. 

But  when  day  came  and  he  was  laid  hold  of  by  the 
Service — this  perfect  machine  that  worked  so  well  that 
every  attempt  to  rise  against  it  had  crushed  him 
without  damaging  the  machine — then  Alfonso  Zirilli  was 
as  wax,  yielding,  complaisant,  and  zealous  in  his  duty. 
He  fawned  and  waited  on  the  sergeant,  saluted  the 
harmless  corporal,  and  crouched  with  dog-like  humility 
before  the  officers.  From  an  endless  distance  Captain 
Vitale  looked  down  on  him  ;  his  bright  eyes  said 
nothing,  but  the  powerful  muscles  spoke.  Lieutenant 
Bianchelli  turned  away  and  returned  Alfonso's  salute 
as  if  it  were  painful  to  him.  The  little  lieutenant, 
with  his  girl-like,  elegant  hands  and  feet,  was  ashamed 
when  he  saw  Alfonso's  eye-service.  The  humility  of 
recruits,  in  which  he  did  not  believe,  was  repugnant 


16  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

to  him,  and  he  turned  away  in  order  to  avoid  showing 
open  contempt  for  such  transparent  deceit. 

'  Captain  Vitale  !   this  Zirilli 

'  He ! '  interrupted  the  captain  with  a  warning  laugh  ; 
'  he  will  make  an  excellent  soldier.  Wait,  my  dear 
Bianchelli — only  wait,  I  tell  you.  Look  !  the  system 
— that  is  everything.  Well,  you  will  see.' 

The  lieutenant  smiled  a  peculiar  smile  and  looked 
away.  It  was  no  use  discussing  these  things  with 
Captain  Vitale.  His  eminently  military  attitude 
forbade  any  close  consideration  of  the  moral  constitu- 
tion of  the  soldier-material.  The  uniform  levels 
them  all  ...  then,  full-stop.  Thinking  was  a  matter 
with  which  a  soldier  need  not  concern  himself.  Think- 
ing was  done  in  the  War  Office  and  by  the  general's 
staff — what  little  of  that  sort  of  thing  was  necessary 
was  supplied  by  others  ;  the  officers  of  the  line  did  not 
trouble  about  such  things,  and  the  rank  and  file 
obeyed — absolutely  nothing  else  but  obeyed. 

Lieutenant  Bianchelli  shook  his  head  as  he  turned 
and  left  his  superior.  This  Zirilli  was  a  cunning 
creature ;  his  eyes  sometimes  flared  up  strangely. 
When  one  added  to  this  what  one  knew  of  his 
convictions,  the  fellow  was  indeed  an  unpleasant, 
disagreeable  spectacle.  If  the  lieutenant  in  the  first 
place  sympathised  with  the  recruit,  he  now  began 
to  look  on  him  with  mistrust. 

Alfonso,  whom  nothing  escaped,  marked  the  altera- 
tion in  the  behaviour  of  the  lieutenant.  He  did  not 
inquire  into  the  cause ;  he  foresaw  the  consequences, 
and,  suddenly,  a  savage  hatred  sprang  up  in  him. 

'  This  insignificant  little  chit — this  ladybird,'  he 
thought, '  wants  to  make  himself  important !  It  occurs 


THE  ANARCHIST  17 

to  him  to  despise  my  honourable  exertions,  and  he 
turns  up  his  nose.  But  wait ;  some  day,  there  is  an 
end  even  to  this  misery  .  .  .  only  wait.'  In  order  to 
be  able  to  hold  out,  Alfonso  needed  some  one  to  hate. 
This  Someone  was  now  found. 

Lieutenant  Bianchelli  was  of  an  easy-going  disposi- 
tion and  willingly  led.  He  shut  his  eyes  to  many  a  side 
slip  of  the  rank  and  file,  in  so  far  as  it  could  happen 
without  risk  to  himself.  As  the  peculiar  sidelong 
glances  of  Alfonso  struck  him  more  frequently,  he 
shook  his  head  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  After  all, 
what  had  this  unsympathetic  person  to  do  with  him  ? 
Alfonso  smiled,  after  he  had  observed  the  lieutenant 
for  a  time.  He  had  already  succeeded  in  making 
an  impression.  .  .  .  Good !  But  he  was  careful  to 
avoid  getting  in  any  way  into  trouble.  Later  on 
.  .  .  after  .  .  .  only  wait ! 

It  was  a  different  matter  with  the  company  com- 
mander. He  took  his  task  in  a  manner  that  made  it 
twice  as  hard  both  for  himself  and  for  the  men.  He 
was  untiring  and  ever-present ;  not  the  smallest  detail 
escaped  him.  On  the  parade-ground  you  were  never 
safe  for  a  moment  from  that  penetrating  eye  ;  in  the 
barracks  he  constantly  turned  up ;  and  if  the  men, 
after  a  strenuous  day,  sat  somewhere  chatting  in  the 
shadow,  he  would  suddenly  appear  at  their  side.  Stern 
and  unapproachable,  he  would  glide  by,  leaving  behind 
him  the  impression  that  even  one's  most  secret  thoughts 
were  known  to  him. 

The  soldiers  of  the  company  went  in  fear  of  their 
commander.  Alfonso  felt  that  he  was  infected  with 
this  impersonal  fear  which  Captain  Manlio  Vitale 
instilled  in  everybody.  Many  a  time  he  dreamed  that 


i8  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

his  rifle  went  off  by  accident  at  target  practice  and  the 
bullet  struck  the  captain  midway  between  those  china- 
bright  eyes.  He  was  on  his  guard,  however,  not  to 
let  anytliing  be  heard  of  such  fantasies.  He  was 
not  such  a  fool  as  to  throw  away  his  whole  life  for  a 
senseless  revenge. 

'  Wait ! '  he  murmured,  '  only  wait ! ' 

The  declaration  of  war  did  not  come  altogether 
unexpected.  Already,  for  some  weeks,  there  had  been 
rumours  in  the  air.  The  rank  and  file  were  unmoved. 
Captain  Vitale's  maxim,  that  the  soldier  should  not 
think,  but  obey,  had  got  into  their  blood. 

Besides,  it  was  not  a  serious  war.  One  or  two 
regiments,  or  perhaps  a  brigade,  would  be  sent  over 
the  sea.  The  whole  thing  was  a  formality,  and  these 
precautionary  measures  were  only  undertaken  to  give 
more  emphasis  to  the  diplomatic  negotiations.  It 
was  a  case  of  acting  quickly  ;  afterwards,  Europe  would 
complaisantly  acquiesce  in  the  fact,  and  wink  an 
intelligent  consent  to  Italy's  action.  All  was  made 
ready  and  put  in  order  to  the  smallest  detail. 

Alfonso  cowered  against  the  walls  of  the  officers' 
mess,  listening  with  all  his  ears.  He  had  slipped  out 
of  his  quarters,  seen  all  the  windows  lighted  up,  and, 
urged  by  his  curiosity,  had  ventured  so  far. 

The  officers  were  laughing  and  talking  noisily. 
They  were  all  of  the  opinion  that  the  war  meant  a 
pleasant  change  in  the  soldier's  monotonous  existence. 
The  lieutenants  pictured  gallant  adventures  with 
fabulous  Arabian  beauties  and  the  captains  drank 
a  glass  of  vino  nero.  They  sat  around  a  battalion 
commander,  who  never  left  off  laughing. 


THE  ANARCHIST  19 

Alfonso's  uneasiness  about  the  war,  which  he 
hated  on  principle,  shrank  to  contempt.  Those  on  the 
other  side  of  the  sea  had  nothing  with  which  to  defend 
themselves,  they  .  .  . 

A  powerful  voice,  with  a  familiar  ring,  now  sounded 
above  the  others.  In  tones  enthusiastic,  glad  and 
stately,  Captain  Vitale  now  took  up  the  word.  With 
chest  expanded  and  moustache  boldly  bristling,  he 
voiced  the  delight  of  his  comrades  in  the  turn  affairs 
had  taken  in  short  military  sentences,  enlivened  with 
many  a  forcible  expression. 

When  the  diplomats  got  their  threads  in  a  tangle, 
the  soldier  came  along  to  cut  the  knot.  In  this  case  .  .  . 
er  .  .  .  well,  they  would  see.  When  the  regiment 
assembled  to-morrow,  the  seventh  company  would 
show  what  it  was  made  of.  Each  man  would  answer 
the  question  whether  he  wished  to  go  with  an  instan- 
taneous affirmative.  It  was  really  quite  unnecessary, 
this  calling  for  volunteers.  A  soldier  should  obey ; 
execute  commands — nothing  more.  But,  at  any  rate, 
it  made  a  good  impression  abroad;  it  was  a  reliable 
test  of  the  nation's  manner  of  thinking.  The  seventh 
company  .  .  .  well,  you  will  see  .  .  .  what  sort 
of  temper  .  .  .  what  enthusiasm.  .  .  . 

Alfonso  went  back  to  his  quarters.  '  Nothing  but 
humbug  ! '  he  muttered. 

The  next  morning  the  regiment  formed  a  square 
on  the  parade-ground.  From  a  distance  that  made  it 
impossible  to  understand  the  words,  the  colonel 
addressed  the  soldiers.  He  closed  with  an  appeal  for 
volunteers  to  come  forward. 

Captain  Vitale  had  turned  round.  His  shining 
eyes  passed  along  the  front.  His  glance  struck  each 

c  a 


20  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

individual  in  turn  and  passed  on  to  the  next,  third, 
fourth,  and  fifth. 

Alfonso  observed  the  captain  through  eyes  half 
closed.  An  unconquerable  aversion  seized  him  ;  he  felt 
a  repugnance  towards  the  men  around  him,  towards 
the  life  he  led — a  loathing  that  made  him  sick.  He 
would  no  longer  stand  it.  Away  at  any  price  !  He 
thrust  the  man  before  him  to  one  side  and  stepped 
impulsively  forward. 

A  quiver  went  through  the  ranks,  all  necks  were 
stretched.  Then  Ambrogio  Lorte  came  forward  and 
after  him  Giovanni  Feretto.  Daniele  Rapagnotti, 
the  farmer  whose  goats  they  had  smelt  so  long,  was  the 
next  .  .  .  then  followed  the  whole  squad. 

They  stood  there  like  one  man,  clicked  their  heels 
together  so  smartly  that  the  dust  rose,  and  stood  to 
attention  without  being  asked.  The  first  and  third 
sections  followed  their  example  and  marched  a  few 
paces  forward.  Corporal  Lantori  stamped  up  behind, 
unable  to  comprehend  anything.  Sergeant  Lucinello 
opened  his  mouth  and  eyes  in  astonishment.  Lieutenant 
Bianchelli,  who  had  pressed  forward  when  the  men  put 
themselves  in  motion,  smiled  in  surprise,  and  his  friend 
Lieutenant  Rivarato  laughed  aloud  with  joy.  Above 
everything  rang  Captain  Vitale's  powerful  voice 
trembling  with  emotion. 

'  Thank  you,  men  !  That  is  what  I  expected  of  you, 
and  I  thank  you  !  ' 

The  company  heaved  a  sigh.  The  soldiers  stuck 
out  their  chests  and  held  up  their  heads.  They  were 
inspired  and  proud  of  the  action  which  distinguished 
them  over  and  above  the  others.  But  what  was 
going  on  over  there  by  the  third  and  fourth  companies  ? 


THE  ANARCHIST  21 

The  officers  were  talking  together  excitedly.  Sergeants 
and  corporals  ran  up  from  all  sides.  And  then  .  .  . 
ah  !  ...  a  soldier,  who  screamed  and  struck  out  like 
a  madman,  was  overpowered  and  borne  away. 

'  What  now  ?  '  asked  Captain  Vitale. 

And  Lieutenant  Rivarato,  who  stood  nearest  to. 
this  scene  of  excitement,  pointed  to  his  forehead  and 
said  aloud  : 

'  Gone  off  his  head  !  ' 

'  Hush  !  '  Captain  Vitale's  eyes  acquired  a  shadow 
of  expression  which  made  him  almost  unrecognisable. 

As  if  to  wipe  out  the  effect  of  the  subaltern's  indis- 
cretion, Captain  Vitale  bellowed  to  his  company  : 

'  Comrades  !  .  .  .  once  more,  my  thanks  !  You 
are  heroes  .  .  .  I  .  .  .' 

Emotion  overcame  him  when  he  thought  of  the 
famous  way  his  men  had  risen  to  the  occasion.  He 
went  straight  up  to  Alfonso.  '  Your  hand,  comrade, 
.  .  .  you  were  the  ...  er  ...  I  thank  you  !  '  His 
left  hand  descended  like  a  club  on  Alfonso's  shoulder, 
as  he  offered  his  right  to  the  recruit. 

The  whole  company  saw  their  commander  exchange 
a  vigorous  handshake  with  a  private,  and  a  buzz  of 
pleasure  went  through  tl^e  ranks.  The  painful  scene 
beyond  was  forgotten,  and  when  he  returned  to  his 
place  Captain  Vitale  was  heard  to  say : 

'  You  see  ...  er  ...  method  is  everything. 
This  very  Zirilli  .  .  .  well,  it  has  come  off  ...  I  am 
satisfied.  Learn  from  me,  young  Bianchelli ! ' 

In  the  evening  they  all  knew  what  had  happened. 
A  man  had  worried  himself  crazy  about  the  war. 
More  than  a  hundred  men  had  heard  him  crying, 
unceasingly : 


22  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  My  wife !  .  .  .  my  little  daughter  !  .  .  .  my 
wife  !  .  .  .  my  little  daughter  !  .  .  . ' 

And  not  a  man  in  the  third  or  fourth  company  had 
come  forward  in  reply  to  the  colonel's  appeal.  For- 
tunately Captain  Vitale  had  saved  the  honour  of  the 
regiment.  It  was  also  rumoured  that  a  corporal  had 
shown  signs  of  madness  and  was  locked  up — think  of 
it,  a  corporal !  The  hum  and  buzz  of  conversation  in 
the  barracks  did  not  cease  till  very  late  that  night. 

Alfonso  Zirilli  lay  and  listened.  Again  and  again 
he  asked  himself  what  he  had  done.  To  be  faithful 
to  his  creed  he  must  hate  war  at  any  time.  But  .  .  . 
he  could  not  help  himself.  A  change  he  must  have, 
at  any  cost,  or  he  too  would  in  the  end  ...  no  ... 
phew ! 

In  the  darkness  some  one  sighed  heavily,  and'tjien  a 
sound  like  praying.  .  .  .  Near  him,  Rapagnotti  the 
farmer  wept  in  his  sleep. 


The  crossing  to  Africa  was  stormy  and  trying.  The 
transport  steamer  rolled  incessantly ;  the  soldiers  were 
seasick  and  longed  for  a  sight  of  land.  When  the  coast 
emerged  above  the  horizon,  all  those  who  had  strength 
enough  broke  out  into  a  boisterous  cheer. 

The  colonel  appeared  on  the  bridge  and  nodded. 
Behind  him  loomed  the  gigantic  figure  of  Captain  Vitale, 
now  the  most  popular  officer  in  the  regiment.  After 
the  colonel  had  rejoiced  a  while  in  the  cheering,  he 
went  into  the  cabin  to  write  on  the  spot  a  telegram 
about  the  good  temper  of  the  troops.  That  would  be 
sure  to  make  an  impression  at  home.  Captain  Vitale 
followed,  twirling  his  moustache. 


THE  ANARCHIST  23 

'  Everything  is  going  splendidly  ...  er  ... 
When  I  think  of  those  Turks  ...  er  ...  poor  devils  !  ' 

The  transport  steamed  past  the  colossal  ironclads 
that  lay  at  anchor  in  the  roads.  It  was  said  that 
hundreds  of  volunteers  had  come  forward  for  the  fleet, 
but  only  a  comparatively  small  number  for  the  army. 

'  They  don't  know  what  it's  like/  said  Captain 
Vitale ;  '  they  ...  er  ...  no  idea.  Anyhow,  civil- 
ians ...  er  ...  sooner  be  without  them.' 

The  disembarkation  took  place  with  incredible 
swiftness.  The  soldiers  stamped  with  impatience, 
and  tumbled  over  each  other  into  the  boats  and 
pinnaces.  If  they  could  only  get  out  of  this  floating 
inferno,  where  the  smell  was  enough  to  turn  the  best 
sailors  sick,  they  wanted  nothing  more. 

On  the  shore  other  soldiers  were  waiting.  They 
examined  the  new-comers  critically,  laughing  and 
passing  remarks. 

By  degrees  the  regiment  got  into  order.  With  firm 
ground  under  their  feet  their  courage  came  back  to 
them.  .  .  .  Good !  the  worst  was  over.  '  Well,  you 
there,  where  are  the  Turks  ?  ' 

'  Cleared  out.  Now  and  then  a  shot ;  otherwise, 
quiet.' 

All  around  joined  in  a  laugh.  Santissima  Madonna! 
what  a  crossing  !  Waves  as  high  as  a  house — a  small 
house,  perhaps,  but  still  .  .  .  the  others  should  thank 
Heaven  they  had  not  experienced  such  a  sea- voyage. 

A  staff-officer  galloped  up  and  asked  for  the  colonel. 
He  was  not  to  be  found ;  had,  presumably,  immediately 
gone  to  see  the  commander-in-chief.  The  officer 
hurried  away  again. 

A  group  of  bare-legged  Arabs,  in  dirty  burnouses 


24  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

stood  at  a  street  corner  and  stared  at  the  strangers. 
A  little  way  farther  on,  a  few  negroes  babbled.  The 
soldiers  laughed  at  the  Arab's  yellow  slippers  ;  that's 
the  right  footwear  for  running  away.  As  soon  as  the 
negroes  heard  the  laughter,  they  joined  in  and  showed 
their  white  teeth.  One  man  stood  alone  with  a  red 
cap  on  his  head.  He  wore  what  looked  like  a  uniform 
and  kept  his  eyes  half  closed.  What  sort  of  a  man  is 
that  ?— a  Turk  ? 

'  A  policeman/  answered  some  one. 

'  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  Well,  he's  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of.  Who  takes  any  notice  of  what  he  says  ?  He 
belongs  to  the  enemy.  But — most  important  matter 
of  all — where  were  the  pretty  women  ?  ' 

The  staff-officer  returned.  What  a  business,  riding 
about  looking  for  some  one  who  is  nowhere  to  be 
found  ! 

'  Number  seven  company  ?  Captain  Vitale  ? 
Number  seven  company  ?  '  The  staff-officer  galloped 
along  the  front  calling  his  two  questions. 

'  Here  !  '  called  Captain  Vitale,  and  pierced  the 
lieutenant,  whose  shouts  annoyed  him,  with  his  eyes. 

The  officer  drew  rein  and  delivered  his  message. 

'  At  his  own  request,  Captain  Vitale  is  commanded 
to  report  himself  with  the  seventh  company  at  ... 
what's  the  name  of  the  place  ?  It  is  a  little  village, 
about  a  mile  south-west  of  the  town.  A  battery  of 
six  guns  and  a  detachment  of  sappers  are  already  there.' 

Captain  Vitale's  eyes  blinked  slightly.  He  had, 
indeed,  asked  as  a  favour  that  he  with  his  company 
should  be  among  the  first  sent  to  the  firing-line ;  but 
...  so  soon  .  .  .  well,  well !  .  .  . 

'  Attention  !   Dress  !   By  the  right !  ' 


THE  ANARCHIST  25 

The  staff-officer  had  clean  forgotten  the  name  of 
the  village ;  but  it  would  be  easy  to  find  .  .  .  the 
artillery,  the  sappers  .  .  .  well,  then  ! 

'  Over  there,  captain  !  '  He  pointed  to  a  row  of 
houses  above  the  harbour.  '  According  to  the  order, 
there  should  be  a  guide  at  this  spot ;  but  .  .  .  well, 
good  luck  to  you,  captain  !  Over  there.  Due  south 
through  the  city  and  then  over  to  the  right.' 

Captain  Vitale  stroked  his  moustache  with  an 
evil-boding  coolness.  Lieutenant  Rivarato  clenched 
his  teeth,  and  little  Bianchelli  shrugged  his  shoulders 
with  vexation. 

With  a  mixture  of  astonishment  and  curiosity,  the 
soldiers  gazed  at  these  windowless  houses  with  their 
well-bolted  doors.  They  felt  as  if  innumerable  eyes 
looked  out  from  these  apparently  forsaken  dwellings. 
There  was  something  hostile  in  the  silence  of  these 
narrow  empty  streets.  They  purposely  made  as 
much  noise  as  possible,  stamping  firmly  on  the  ground. 
After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  were  obliged  to  halt  in 
a  cul-de-sac.  Captain  Vitale  was  annoyed.  He  ground 
a  curse  in  his  teeth,  and  asked  Lieutenant  Bianchelli 
if  he  had  a  map  of  the  city  with  him. 

The  lieutenant  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'  About  turn  !  '  The  company  marched  out  of  the 
cul-de-sac.  '  Knock  at  some  door,  one  of  you  !  There 
must  be  something  besides  dogs  living  in  this  damned 
town.' 

Alfonso  was  out  of  the  ranks  in  an  instant  and 
knocked  with  the  butt  of  his  rifle  at  the  nearest  door. 
The  echo  resounded  through  the  house,  but  none 
answered. 

The  two  lieutenants  hurried  up  to  the  captain  and 


26  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

whispered   officiously.     Captain   Vitale   shrugged   his 
shoulders  and  called  to  Alfonso  : 

'  Cease  knocking  !   The  house  is  empty.' 

Alfonso  fell  back  into  the  ranks.  He  was  aggrieved 
at  the  way  his  zeal  had  been  received. 

A  man  in  civilian  dress,  but  with  a  military  cap  on 
his  head,  swung  round  the  corner.  He  stopped 
suddenly,  in  astonishment  at  the  long  line  of  soldiers, 
and  was  about  to  turn  back  when  Captain  Vitale's 
voice  rang  out : 

'  Hi,  you  there  !     Do  you  speak  Italian  ?  ' 

'  Just  what  I  thought ! '  With  his  hands  in  his 
trouser-pockets,  the  man  came  nearer ;  '  lost  your 
way,  have  you  ?  ' 

The  captain  did  not  deign  to  answer,  but  Lieutenant 
Bianchelli,  to  whom  the  ridiculous  element  in  the 
situation  was  painful,  explained. 

'  I  see  !  About  turn,  lieutenant !  I  wondered  what 
on  earth  you  could  be  after  in  the  Jews'  quarter.  .  .  .' 

'  By  the  right !  Quick  march  ! '  came  the  command, 
and  the  company  set  itself  in  motion.  The  captain 
kept  next  to  the  rear  section,  and  left  it  to  Bianchelli 
to  walk  with  the  guide  chance  had  thrown  in  their  way. 

'  Just  arrived  ?  '  asked  the  man  in  the  kepi,  in- 
terested. 

The  lieutenant  nodded. 

'  Strange  ! '  said  the  man,  '  very  strange  !  Here  are 
several  thousand  men  who  have  nothing  in  the  world 
to  do,  I  tell  you,  lieutenant,  absolutely  nothing  in  the 
world.  And  they  send  a  company  to  the  front  that 
is  scarcely  dry  from  its  sea-voyage.  Immediately  .  .  . 
on  the  spot  ...  if  I  were  in  the  general's  shoes  .  .  .' 

'  Is  it  this  street  here  ?  '  interrupted  Bianchelli. 


THE  ANARCHIST  27 

'  Straight  on  ! '  declared  the  man  officiously.  '  You 
cannot  miss  the  way.  There  is  the  citadel  just  beyond, 
and  then  you  see  the  road  .  .  .  there  is  a  whole 
battalion  there.  "See  you  again  !  Good  luck  to  you, 
comrades !  Your  servant,  captain ! '  The  man 
attempted  a  military  salute,  nodded  to  the  soldiers, 
bowed  to  the  captain,  and  went  on  his  way. 

The  latter  did  not  return  his  salute,  but  stared 
straight  in  front  of  him.  He  was  furious  with  himself. 
How  could  he  lead  his  men  so  astray  !  To  tramp  about 
narrow  streets  in  a  circle,  and  then  to  depend  on  a 
doubtful  subject,  a  sem\-civilian,  in  order  to  ...  He 
pressed  his  lips  together  until  they  were  white.  But 
why  was  the  promised  guide  not  forthcoming  ?  Did 
they  expect  him  to  find  his  way  by  himself  in  this 
mousehole  ?  The  captain  snorted  and  gripped  hold  of 
the  hilt  of  his  sword.  Where  were  the  Turks  ?  He 
wished  he  had  them  here.  The  rage  that  boiled  in  him 
needed  some  one  on  whom  it  could  vent  itself. 

The  exasperation  of  the  captain  infected  the  troops. 
There  was  something  ludicrous  in  this  wandering 
about ;  they  felt  it  was  unworthy  of  the  company's 
reputation.  The  soldiers  looked  around  with  angry 
eyes.  The  broad  straight  street  through  which  they 
marched  was  not  by  any  means  empty,  as  were  the 
streets  in  the  Jewish  quarter.  Arabs  stood  talking 
here  and  there  in  groups ;  one  or  two  red  fezzes  were 
visible  outside  a  cafe". 

'  Are  those  Turks  ? '  It  was  Rapagnotti,  the  young 
farmer,  who  put  the  queston. 

Alfonso  shrugged  his  shoulders.     He  was  not  sure. 

'  They  are,'  answered  Rapagnotti ;  and  broke  into  a 
flood  of  curses.  '  The  devil  take  you  all ! '  he  threatened 


28  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

with  his  rifle.  '  To  hell  with  you  !  I'll  send  you  to 
perdition,  damned  red-caps !  Get  out  of  the  way  or 
I'll  shoot  you  !  ' 

'  Quiet,  there  !  '  The  captain  stood  on  his  toes  to 
see  who  made  the  noise. 

'  Hold  your  tongue  !  '  whispered  Alfonso. 

'  They  are  Turks  !  '  was  Rapagnotti's  excuse,  and 
he  almost  put  his  neck  out  of  joint  looking  back  at  the 
men  who  had  roused  his  anger.  Directly  after,  he 
cried  plaintively  :  '  I  am  hungry  ! ' 

'  Who  isn't  ?  ' 

Before  and  behind  there  was  a  murmur  in  the  ranks. 
The  men  were  dissatisfied,  hungry,  and  tired.  Instead 
of  giving  them  a  little  rest  to  regain  their  strength  after 
the  strain  of  the  sea-voyage,  they  were  immediately 
sent  away  .  .  .  God  knows  where  ! 

Before  the  gates  of  the  town  stood  a  sentry ;  and 
scattered  in  all  directions  on  the  sand  were  soldiers  of 
the  line.  A  young  lieutenant  of  artillery,  almost  a 
boy,  waited  by  his  horse. 

'  Captain  Vitale  ?     Number  seven  company  ?  ' 

'  Are  you  the  guide  ?  ' 

'  I  have  been  waiting  here  two  hours.' 

Captain  Vitale  drew  himself  up  stiffly. 

'  Sir,  we  have  marched  here  direct  from  the  landing- 
stage.' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  captain  !  My  expression  .  .  . 
I  did  not  mean.  .  .  .' 

'  Kindly  lead  the  way  !  ' 

Captain  Vitale  turned  and  took  his  place  beside  his 
company. 

The  young  lieutenant  became  crimson  in  the  face 
and  hurried  to  Rivarato's  side. 


THE  ANARCHIST  29 

'  A  bear  ! — what  ?  ' 

'  Well,  not  exactly,  but  .  .  .'  Lieutenant  Rivarato 
looked  back  to  see  how  near  the  captain  was.  '  I 
understand.'  With  the  quickness  of  youth  to  jump  to 
conclusions,  the  artilleryman  winked  his  comprehension. 
'  Always  to  the  right.  There,  farther  to  the  south,  lies 
Bu-Meliana,  where  we  get  our  water  from — when 
we  get  any.'  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  rode 
carelessly  on. 

The  company  swung  out  of  the  town,  crossed  over 
an  old  half-broken-down  bridge,  and  curved  round  to 
the  right.     Close  up  to  the  town  the  ground  was  hard 
and  firm ;  but  scarcely  a  hundred  paces  farther  their 
feet  sank  deep  in  the  soft  sand.     It  was  slow  progress 
they  made,  with  never  a  firm  bit  of  ground.    The 
soldiers  glanced  sideways  at  their  captain.     Would  he 
give  them  no  rest  ?     But   the  captain  held  himself 
straighter  than  ever,  and  his  long  legs  were  stretched 
in  even  longer  strides  than  usual.    Difficulties  are 
made  to  be  overcome.     He  marched  on  as  if  he  neither 
heard  nor  saw.     The  men  looked  at  each  other.    What 
did  it  mean  ?   Were  they  to  go  on  till  they  dropped  ? 
A  violent  dissatisfaction  grew  among  them  and  passed 
through  invisible  channels  from  man  to  man.     Some- 
where in  the  rear  a  cough  was  heard,  and  soon  half  the 
company  joined  in.     Captain  Vitale  turned  his  head 
and  let  his  eye  run  over  the  rebels,  who  were  silent  at 
once.     But  now  came  a  murmur  from  the  front  ranks. 
Lieutenant  Bianchelli  stole  a  glance  at  the  captain.    He 
had  pushed  a  handkerchief  under  his  hat,  for  the  rim 
had  made  his  forehead  sore.     It  was  also  fearfully  hot. 
The  sweat  poured  from  their  faces ;    their  breath 
came  in  dry  gasps.    There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind, 


30  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

and  the  hot  oppressive  air  was  heavy  with  the  odour 
of  perspiration  from  the  steaming  ranks. 

Captain  Vitale  went  faster  and  reached  the  van. 

'  Lieutenant,  where  can  we  get  some  water  ?  ' 

'  Water  ?  You  should  have  brought  it  with  you. 
They  say  the  Arabs  have  fouled  the  few  springs  that 
there  are,  and  nobody  will  risk  .  .  .' 

'  The  Arabs  ?  They  are  our  friends  ?  ' 

The  artilleryman  bent  his  head  and  looked  at 
Captain  Vitale. 

'  I  hardly  think  .  .  .  hem  !  that  we  may  call  them 
friends.' 

'  Why  not  ?  '  asked  the  captain  ;  '  it  is  the  Turks 
with  whom  we  are  at  war.' 

'  The  Arabs  will  not  give  anything  for  the  Turks, 
that's  true.  Nevertheless  ...  to  say  the  truth, 
captain,  hatred  is  a  poor  word  for  their  feelings 
towards  us.' 

Captain  Vitale  threw  back  his  head,  so  that  the 
feathers  in  his  hat  fluttered  on  all  sides. 

'  I  am  glad/  he  cried.  '  I  prefer  a  clean  game.  So 
they  do  us  the  honour  of  hating  us  ...  really,  I  am 
sorry  for  them.' 

From  the  ranks,  where  these  remarks  could  be 
heard,  arose  a  threatening  murmur.  With  burning  eyes 
the  soldiers  looked  around.  Everything  in  this  strange 
land  held  something  hostile ;  something  inhospitable 
and  repulsive.  The  yellow  sand,  dry  and  hot  as  ashes, 
the  burning  rays  of  the  sun — this  they  were  used  to — 
the  dense,  prickly  cactus-bushes  and  dark  vegetation, 
with  which  some  places  were  entirely  overgrown, 
whilst  others  were  left  bare  and  dead.  These  contra- 
dictions, side  by  side,  irritated  them.  Here  and  there 


THE  ANARCHIST  31 

fig-trees  and  grey-green  olives  reminded  them  of  the 
land  they  had  left.  And  then  there  were  palms. 
Indeed,  there  were  thousands  of  them ;  but  they  were 
ragged  and  bristly,  nothing  like  the  pictures  which 
had  been  shown  them  on  the  voyage.  But  what 
annoyed  the  soldiers  more  than  all  were  these  little 
barred  huts  behind  their  high  walls.  Why  did  the 
people  everywhere  lock  themselves  in  so  carefully 
when  the  troops  marched  by  ?  Why  did  they  not  show 
themselves  ?  Should  they  not  rather  have  met  them 
waving  their  hands  in  welcome  ?  Surely,  the  victors 
have  a  right  to  expect  so  much  ! 

The  soldiers  felt  instinctively  that  displeasure  and 
distrust,  as  well  as  heat,  streamed  out  from  these  white 
walls.  The  company  drew  themselves  up  as  one  man. 
With  clenched  teeth  and  burning  eyes,  silently  vowing 
vengeance,  the  troops  advanced,  now  on  hard  ground 
that  echoed  their  steady  steps,  now  on  soft  sand 
that  sank  and  slipped  aside.  The  sun  scorched,  the 
sweat  streamed  from  their  tired  flabby  faces,  and  a 
suffocating  odour  hung  like  a  cloud  over  the  ranks. 

The  artilleryman  in  the  van  swung  round  a  wall 
and  disappeared.  They  were  (thank  Heaven  !)  on 
firm  ground  once  more,  and  the  soldiers  quickened 
their  steps.  When  they  in  turn  reached  the  corner 
they  discovered  a  battery  of  artillery  behind  a  sand- 
hill that  looked  like  a  solidified  wave.  The  young 
lieutenant  spurred  his  horse  and  galloped  up  to  a 
group  of  officers. 

'  Halt !  Lie  down  !  '  Captain  Vitale  signed  to 
Lieutenant  Rivarato  to  execute  the  order  and  hurried 
to  meet  the  artillerymen. 

The  word  of  command  had  scarcely  sounded  when 


32  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

the  men  flung  themselves  on  the  ground.  They  lay 
just  as  they  fell,  and  coughed  aloud.  The  sand  filled 
their  eyes,  noses  and  mouths  opened  to  snatch  a 
breath  of  air. 

Captain  Vitale  straightened  himself. 
'  Here  at  last ! '  he  cried  out  to  a  captain  of  artillery 
who  hurriedly  approached.     He  noticed  that  his  own 
voice  was  dry  and  hoarse. 

'  Ah,  Vitale !  Welcome ! '  He  was  an  old 
acquaintance,  and  they  shook  hands  heartily.  '  Not 
a  moment  too  soon.  .  .  .' 

'  What  ?  '  Captain  Vitale  withdrew  his  hand  quickly. 

'  I  did  not  mean  it  as  a  reproach/  whispered  the 

artilleryman,  and  led  him  to  one  side ;  '  but  you  see,  I 

have  been  here  with  my  six  guns  for  four-and-twenty 

hours — alone  !    Think  of  it,  Vitale  !     No  other  guard 

but  fifty  sappers  who  had  been  sent  to  prepare  the 

ground  !     They  are  there  now  to  make  things  a  little 

straight  for  you  ' — he  pointed   to   the  left.     '  I   am 

finished  ;  can't  do  any  more.    You  can  understand  the 

responsibility  .  .  .  and  for  miles  around  not  a  solitary 

infantryman  !  There  was  a  gap  here,  and  they  filled  it 

with  my  battery.     Last  night  we  never  shut  our  eyes. 

But  now  we'll  make  up  for  it.     In  the  meantime,  I 

leave  everything  in   your  hands.     The  men   are   so 

nerve-strained  that  the  slightest  sound  startles  them. 

The  nights  are  awful,  Vitale.     You  can't  see  your 

hand  before  your  eyes,  but  you  can  hear  ...  I  don't 

know  if  it's  Arabs  or  dogs  or  what.     I  have  forbidden 

the  troops  to  fire;  but  whether  they  have  obeyed  .  .  .' 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  went  on  in  the  same 

breath  :   '  Farther  to  the  south  they  have  been  hard  at 

it,  and  any  minute  it  may  begin  again.    They  glide  by 


THE  ANARCHIST  33 

in  the  dark,  alarming  the  sentries  and  tempt  them  to 
shoot.  And  at  the  first  shot,  all  the  men  will  wake  out 
of  their  sleep  and  blaze  away  their  cartridges  .-'<?.. 
in  all  directions.' 

'  Have  you  any  water  ?  '  put  in  Captain  Vitale  as 
the  other  stopped  a  moment  for  breath. 

'  Not  a  drop  !  It  is  a  case  of  "  everyone  for  himself." 
Where  is  the  regimental  transport  ?  The  others  are 
following  soon  ?  ' 

Vitale  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'  We  came  straight  from  the  ship/  he  said  angrily. 

'  Yes,  of  course.  There  sit  some  of  the  gentlemen 
of  the  staff  in  front  of  their  maps  and  measure  with 
their  compasses.  So  many  men  here  and  so  many 
there — that 's  right ;  one  battery  on  the  left  and  one  on 
the  right.  Such  details  as  hunger  and  fatigue  are  not 
inquired  into.  When  we  reach  the  spot,  the  lie  of  the 
land  is  impossible,  or  there  is  a  total  lack  of  water  and 
other  little  agreeable  surprises.  This  morning  we 
finished  our  reserve  stores ;  and  if  to-morrow  we  do 
not  get  supplies  the  men  will  be  out  of  hand.  They 
have  had  trials  enough  without  this.' 

Captain  Vitale  chewed  his  moustache. 

'  Now  you  are  responsible,'  went  on  the  artillery- 
man. '  I  can't  keep  my  eyes  open  another  minute. 
Do  me  a  favour  and  leave  a  section  over  there  with 
the  battery.  I  cannot  be  sure  of  my  men — so  nerve- 
strained  .  .  .  you  know.'  He  yawned  emphatically 
and  stretched  himself.  '  Would  you  believe  they  have 
sent  away  two  of  my  guns — no  man  knows  where. 
Good-night,  Vitale  !  Sleep  well,  but  with  one  eye 
open  ! '  He  turned  about  and  went  off  with  dragging 
steps. 


34  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Captain  Vitale  returned  to  his  exhausted  company. 
He  threw  out  his  chest  and  squared  his  shoulders; 
he  was  himself  again.  The  half-suppressed  mur- 
mur of  the  men,  at  being  disturbed  so  soon,  passed 
unheeded. 

A  little  while  later  the  troops  had  taken  cover 
behind  a  ruinous  wall,  on  which  the  engineers  in  the 
course  of  the  day  had  executed  just  as  much  repair  as 
was  absolutely  necessary.  It  was  late  in  the  after- 
noon, and  hunger  overcame  the  men.  Ambrogio  Lorte, 
the  printer,  sobbed  softly.  He  had  suddenly  thought 
of  his  mother  ;  and,  meditating  on  this  for  a  while,  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  he  was  about  to  die.  Feretto, 
to  whom  he  confided  his  sad  forebodings,  shook  his 
head  gloomily. 

Rapagnotti,  the  young  farmer,  had  not  even 
unstrapped  his  knapsack,  but  sat  there  with  his  rifle 
between  his  legs  and  stared  at  the  ground. 

'  I  am  hungry, '  he  muttered  between  his  teeth. 
'  O  Lord,  I  am  hungry  ! ' 

Alfonso  lay  on  his  stomach  and  chewed  at  an  ear 
of  halfa  grass — that  at  least  moistened  his  tongue. 

The  comrades  glanced  at  Lorte  and  exchanged  a 
half-spoken  thought,  but  forbore  to  speak  of  the 
unhappy  fellow.  A  heavy  depression  weighed  down 
all  their  spirits. 

Captain  Vitale  gave  Lieutenant  Rivarato  the  last 
orders — the  lieutenant  was  to  push  forward  with  his 
section  on  outpost  duty. 

'  Over  there  ! '  explained  a  sergeant  of  engineers, 
and  pointed.  '  We  have  demolished  a  house  that 
stood  in  the  way,  and  marked  out  the  trenches. 
To-morrow  .  .  .' 


THE  ANARCHIST  35 

'  Was  anyone  living  in  the  house  ? '  asked  Rivarato, 
looking  thoughtfully  at  the  spot. 

'  Of  course  !  We  drove  them  away.' 
.  '  If  by  six  o'clock  nothing  has  arrived,  we  shall 
have  to  start  on  the  emergency  rations,'  grumbled 
Captain  Vitale.  '  I  '11  send  out  a  patrol !  .  .  . '  He 
yawned,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  sleepily :  '  A 
rivederci  !  ' 

A  few  minutes  later  the  first  section  marched  away 
and  disappeared  behind  one  of  the  wave-like  sand- 
hills. Not  one  of  those  left  behind  turned  his  head. 
Indifferent,  tired,  and  exhausted,  they  lay  stretched 
out  on  the  hot  sand. 

Captain  Vitale  crept  into  one  of  the  abandoned 
huts  that  the  company  had  taken  possession  of.  He 
was  driven  out  immediately  by  the  dirt  and  smell.  He 
yawned  aloud.  In  another  second  he  threw  himself 
on  the  ground  ;  in  the  next  he  was  asleep. 

After  an  hour  or  so  darkness  fell,  and  with  it  came 
sudden  cold.  The  soldiers  awoke  from  their  leaden 
slumber  with  chattering  teeth.  There  were  impatient 
exclamations,  and  restless  movements  were  manifest 
in  all  directions. 

'  Zirilli !  ' 

'  Is  that  you,  Rapagnotti  ?  ' 

'  I.'m  ravenous  !'  said  the  man  of  the  fields  in  a  tone 
which  reminded  Alfonso  of  a  dog  when  it  is  roused. 

Alfonso  shrugged  his  shoulders.  During  the  last 
month  he  had  changed  more  and  more.  His  desire  for 
vengeance,  his  stubbornness,  and,  above  all,  his  faith 
in  his  ideas,  had  been  slowly  and  surely  ground  out  of 
him.  For  a  long  time  now  he  had  had  the  feeling 
that  his  brain  was  hollow  and  empty.  It  was  all  a 


36  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

matter  of  indifference  to  him ;  he  hoped  for  a  change, 
and  yet  he  did  not  care.  One  must  take  things  as  they 
come,  and  wait  for  release. 

He  stood  up,  silently,  and  strained  his  eyes  to  distin- 
guish his  comrades.  He  felt,  rather  than  saw,  how  a 
shadow  in  the  darkness  glided  out  and  came  after 
him. 

'  Have  you  brought  your  rifle  ?  '  asked  Rapagnotti 
softly. 

Alfonso  growled  an  affirmative. 

'  In  that  direction  there  's  a  village,'  whispered  the 
other.  '  I  saw  it  while  we  were  resting  this  afternoon.' 
He  added  quickly,  and  the  growl  of  an  angry  dog 
sounded  in  his  words  :  '  I  must  have  food  ! ' 

They  groped  in  the  darkness,  found  the  path,  and 
followed  it  for  a  while. 

'  There  ! '  said  Rapagnotti. 

Alfonso  perceived  a  faint  light  in  the  distance. 

They  climbed  a  slope,  felt  their  way  along  a  wall, 
and  made  for  the  light.  Rapagnotti  knocked  at  a  door 
with  the  butt  of  his  rifle. 

The  light  that  had  shown  them  the  way  was  extin- 
guished. No  one  answered  from  within. 

Rapagnotti  searched  for  the  latch,  found  it,  and 
opened  the  door. 

'  Have  you  a  match,  Zirilli  ?  ' 

Alfonso  was  roused  by  the  adventure  ;  the  suspense 
braced  his  nerves.  He  pulled  out  a  box  of  vestas  and 
passed  them  to  his  comrade,  who  found  his  hand  at 
once. 

Rapagnotti  struck  a  match  and  lit  up  the  room. 
They  distinguished  an  Arab,  who  cowered  against  the 
white  wall  opposite.  Two  children  turned  anxious 


THE  ANARCHIST  37 

eyes  on  the  intruders ;  a  woman  stood  up  hastily,  and 
drew  her  veil  over  her  face.  The  match  went  out. 

When  Rapagnotti  lit  another,  the  woman  had 
disappeared,  and  the  Arab  risen  up.  His  face  was 
unmoved,  but  his  attitude  showed  he  was  ready  to 
defend  himself. 

Rapagnotti  struck  a  third  match,  and  entered.  On 
a  low  octagonal  table  he  discovered  a  lamp,  which  he 
succeeded  in  lighting  without  letting  his  rifle  out  of  his 
hand.  The  remains  of  the  match  described  a  curve  in 
the  air,  and  as  he  shook  his  burnt  fingers  he  cried  in 
triumph  : 

'  Well,  wasn't  I  right  ?  There  is  their  supper.' 

Near  the  lamp  stood  an  earthen  dish  filled  with  a 
large  portion  of  kous-kous.  The  legs  of  a  boiled  fowl 
stuck  out  of  the  heaped-up  rice. 

Rapagnotti  knelt  down  by  the  table  and  began  to 
eat.  His  powerful  jaws  pounded  the  food.  His 
rifle  lay  in  the  hollow  of  his  left  arm  ;  his  right  hand 
dug  into  the  rice.  His  hat  had  slipped  over  his  ear, 
the  plumes  drooping  over  his  shoulder.  He  made 
a  grotesque  picture  of  greedy  haste. 

Alfonso  remained  standing  inside  the  door  and  gazed 
on  the  scene.  The  proprietors  of  the  house  were 
relieved,  and  showed  neither  curiosity  nor  surprise  ; 
the  children  crept  behind  their  parents,  and  now  and 
then  a  head  peeped  out.  No  one  spoke  till  Rapagnotti 
asked  for  '  water.' 

After  he  had  repeated  the  word  several  times,  the 
Arab  understood.  At  a  sign  from  him  a  boy  of  about 
eight  years  dragged  a  large  stone  pitcher  on  to  the 
table. 

Rapagnotti  nodded,  and  went  on  eating.    When 


38  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

his  hunger  was  somewhat  appeased,  he  cast  a  glance 
over  his  shoulder  at  Alfonso. 

'  Won't  you  .  .   .  ?  ' 

He  completed  the  sentence  by  cramming  another 
handful  in  his  mouth. 

Alfonso  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  really 
rather  funny.  Standing  up,  he  began  to  take  part  in 
this  strange  meal.  Rapagnotti  nodded  to  him  to  go 
on  ;  there  was  plenty  of  rice  left. 

After  they  had  eaten  and  drunk,  Rapagnotti  wiped 
his  hands  on  the  wall.  Then  he  grinned  with  satis- 
faction and  said : 

'  I  was  sick  all  the  time  on  the  crossing  ;  I  should 
certainly  have  died  if  I  had  not  got  something  to  eat.' 

Alfonso  had  eaten  but  little  ;  the  strong  spices 
burnt  his  throat  and  caused  him  an  attack  of 
coughing.  But  he  drank  the  more. 

Without  once  looking  directly  at  their  guests, 
the  Arabs,  nevertheless,  let  none  of  their  movements 
escape  them.  Except  Rapagnotti,  none  had  uttered 
a  word. 

'  Have  you  finished  ?  '  he  asked ;  and,  as  Alfonso 
looked  up,  he  said,  with  a  stupid  cunning  smile :  '  Don't 
be  alarmed ;  I  won't  say  your  name  so  that  anyone 
can  hear  it.' 

He  was  pleased  with  himself,  and  laughed  with 
gratification.  While  Alfonso  cleaned  the  remains  of 
the  food  from  his  hands,  his  comrade  looked  into  the 
living-room.  A  small  pitcher  in  the  corner  aroused 
his  curiosity,  and  he  lifted  it  up.  The  Arab  made  as 
if  to  prevent  him ;  but  Rapagnotti  struck  the  butt 
end  of  his  gun  on  the  floor,  and  the  other  resumed  his 
motionless  attitude.  When  Rapagnotti  shook  the 


THE  ANARCHIST  39 

pitcher,  a  sound  of  metal  was  audible.  He  put  it  down 
quickly,  as  if  it  burnt  his  fingers. 

'  Let  us  go  ! ' 

He  slipped  through  the  low  door,  Alfonso  after  him, 
wondering  in  silence  what  the  hasty  sidelong  glances  of 
his  companion  meant. 

They  were  soon  on  the  path,  groping  along  in  the 
darkness. 

'  Do  you  think  you  could  find  your  way  here 
again  ?  '  asked  Rapagnotti  suddenly. 

'No.' 

'  But  I  could/  He  laughed,  but  stopped  at  once 
and  asked  :  '  Did  you  hear  what  was  in  that  jug  ?  ' 
Before  Alfonso  could  reply,  he  went  on : '  Money,  my  lad ! 
money  !  '  His  voice  trembled  with  awe  ;  it  sounded 
deep  and  resonant,  as  if  it  had  acquired  some  of  the 
ring  of  the  metal  itself.  '  Money  !  '  he  repeated,  '  not 
very  much — perhaps  two  handfuls  ;  but  .  .  .'  He 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  his  stride  and  pulled  Alfonso 
up  with  a  sudden  jerk. 

'  If  I  had  asked  for  it,  do  you  think  that  fellow 
would  have  refused  ?  ' 

'  It  is  strictly  prohibited  .  .  .' 

'  I  know  that/  interrupted  Rapagnotti  impatiently. 
'  But  if  I  had  asked — not  in  the  least  threatened — 
merely  asked  ?  He  would  certainly  have  answered 
yes/ 

Alfonso  laughed  aloud.  Here  was  he,  the  anarchist, 
in  the  act  of  dissuading  this  model  soldier  from  a  deed 
of  violence  ! 

'  Well,  and  what  then  ?  '  he  asked. 

Rapagnotti  became  eager.  He  told  of  the  hardships 
and  misery  of  their  little  mountain  village  where  men 


40  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

and  beasts  lived  together.  One  springtime  in  particular 
was  impressed  on  his  memory.  The  winter  had  been 
frightful ;  the  cattle  died  of  starvation,  and  his  own 
father  .  .  .  Rapagnotti  stifled  a  sob  and  struck  his 
breast  with  his  clenched  fist.  In  short,  it  came  to  a 
bread-riot.  Men,  women,  and  children  from  his  own 
and  five  or  six  neighbouring  villages  marched  one 
bright  spring-day  towards  the  coast — towards  a  town 
full  of  rich,  well-clothed  and  well-fed  citizens.  They  also 
would  eat ;  they  called  for  help  ;  they  claimed  their 
rights.  They  began  by  cutting  down  one  of  those 
acacia-trees  so  numerous  in  the  south,  and  made  a 
clumsy  attempt  to  set  fire  to  a  custom-house.  At  a 
bend  in  the  road  they  came  upon  a  body  of  soldiers, 
bersaglicri,  in  almost  the  same  uniforms  as  they 
themselves  were  now  wearing.  '  Back,  or  we  fire  !  '  was 
their  greeting  to  the  peasants,  who  came  shouting 
and  screaming  down  the  hill. 

Only  the  foremost  heard  the  words ;  the  others 
pressed  forward,  crying  :  '  Justice  !  Relief  !  Bread  !  ' 
By  way  of  answer,  a  harsh  voice  behind  the  soldiers 
croaked  out  '  Fire  ! '  The  rifles  blazed  ;  shouts  and 
screams,  anger,  fear  and  lamentations,  and  then  the 
patter  of  innumerable  sandalled  feet  as  the  mob  of 
peasants  scattered  in  indiscriminate  flight.  '  Bersa- 
glieri — they  were  wearing  the  same  uniform  that  I 
have  on  now,  Zirilli — stormed  up  the  road.  They  did 
not  seem  to  see  little  twelve-year-old  Daniel  crying, 
transfixed  with  fear  over  his  fallen  father,  whose  knee 
had  been  shattered  by  a  bullet/ 

There  was  nothing  further.  With  the  help  of  some 
kindly  Samaritan,  they  eventually  reached  their  own 
village.  There  was  no  doctor ;  nor  would  it  have  been 


THE  ANARCHIST  41 

wise  to  apply  to  one,  for  fear  of  the  inquiries  that 
might  ensue.  Old  Rapagnotti  died  in  the  course  of  the 
summer  ;  he  could  not  endure  starvation  any  longer. 

Alfonso  meditated.  There  was  nothing  uncommon 
about  a  hunger-riot  there  in  the  south.  At  the 
printer's  where  he  worked,  they  had  exact  information 
about  such  things. 

Rapagnotti  talked  on.  His  whole  childhood  and 
youth  had  been  one  long  struggle  against  starvation. 
He  was  differently  constructed  from  most  people : 
he  needed  more  food.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  hungry  he  had 
been  !  But,  on  that  account,  he  could  eat  more  than 
other  people  when  there  was  anything  to  eat. 

Alfonso  put  his  hand  on  his  comrade's  shoulder  and 
began  to  talk  in  his  turn.  In  the  darkness  of  the  night 
he  sketched  out  his  vague,  nebulous  ideals  ;  while 
the  palms  rustled  over  their  heads  he  told  of  the 
dream  of  the  future,  which  was  to  be  realised  after 
the  Great  Revolution  :  '  You  see,  the  Great  Revolution 
which .  .  .' 

But  Rapagnotti  shook  off  his  comrade's  hand. 
That  was  all  nonsense.  The  priest  had  warned  them 
against  it.  Zirilli  should  not  come  and  put  these 
fancies  into  his  head.  No  ;  a  sensible  man  got  hold  of 
money — that  was  the  way  to  happiness.  Money — as 
much  money  as  possible — that  was  the  chief  thing. 
Money,  before  everything — money.  In  his  southern 
covetousness,  he  repeated  the  word  again  and  again. 
Suddenly  he  pressed  close  to  Alfonso  and  whispered : 

'  I  know  where  to  find  money.  The  Arabs  have  all 
got  it  hidden  in  their  houses.  For  years  I  have  prayed 
to  the  Madonna  Addolorata  to  lead  me  to  a  spot  where 
there  was  money.  Now,  at  last,  she  has  heard  me.  We 


42  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

are  at  war,  you  know/  and  he  piously  made  the  sign 
of  the  Cross  over  the  mouth  of  his  rifle. 

Alfonso  bit  his  lip.  These  parsons — their  con- 
founded black  coats — were  to  be  met  with  everywhere. 
Was  there  any  truth  in  the  rumour  that  this  was 
really  their  war  ?  Had  they  brought  it  about  in 
order  to 'obtain  in  time  a  large  profit  for  the  coffers 
of  their  church  ? 

'  Money  !  '  repeated  Rapagnotti  obstinately.  And 
then  he  added  in  an  anxious  whisper :  '  You  won't  tell 
anyone  ?  ' 

Alfonso  promised  to  hold  his  tongue.  They  had 
reached  the  camp  by  now,  and  slipped  into  the  ranks 
of  their  comrades,  guided  by  their  snores.  Rapagnotti 
curled  himself  up,  grasping  his  rifle  with  both  hands. 
Alfonso  leant  against  the  wall  behind  him.  He  felt 
something  going  on  in  his  mind.  His  brain,  that  had 
lain  so  long  like  a  dead  lump,  began  to  work  and 
bring  forth  thoughts.  At  first  slow  and  laboured,  they 
now  came  faster  and  faster. 

Alfonso  laughed  spitefully.  He  perceived  the 
confusion  behind  this  apparent  order ;  he  grasped  how 
impossible  it  was  to  control  this  complicated  machinery. 
That  was  the  reason  why  they  were  always  so  fearfully 
anxious  about  polishing  up  the  details.  Every  link 
fitted  extraordinarily  well ;  but  when  they  were  joined, 
friction  ensued,  and  little  unevennesses  came  to  light. 
Hundreds  of  contentious  wills  crossed  each  other  and 
occasioned  certain  strife.  And  somewhere  on  the  other 
side,  far  away  in  the  desert,  were  other  wills,  which 
never  ceased  to  contrive  how  they  could  bring  to  naught 
the  schemes  and  endeavours  of  the  Italians.  Force, 
lies,  and  cunning — in  a  word,  all  that  a  righteous  man 


THE  ANARCHIST  43 

abominated  and  looked  on  as  degradation — was  here 
exalted  to  a  duty. 

Alfonso  gave  vent  to  a  deep  moaning  sigh.  He 
saw  clearly ;  he  knew  what  he  had  to  think. 

'  It  is  war ! '  he  said  aloud,  and  with  the  satisfaction 
of  a  man  who,  in  spite  of  everything,  sees  his  way. 

A  shadow  approached,  and  passed  by  at  a  short 
distance. 

'  Ah,  they  have  posted  sentries  !  '  thought  Alfonso. 
Of  course,  Captain  Vitale  was  a  perfect  soldier.  He 
nodded  sleepily  ;  he  was  pleased  that  he  had  found 
a  way  out  of  the  labyrinth  in  which  his  thoughts  still 
wandered.  He  stretched  his  legs  and  shut  his  eyes. 
The  short  period  of  cold,  that  followed  immediately 
after  sunset,  had  long  since  changed  to  a  grateful 
warmth.  A  gentle  wind  rustled  in  the  palms.  The 
stars  shone  in  the  infinite — the  same  stars  that  shone 
over  his  own  land. 

On  the  following  morning  the  second  battalion 
arrived  quite  early  and  encamped  next  to  the  seventh 
company.  The  officers  crowded  round  Captain  Vitale 
and  Lieutenant  Bianchelli. 

Anything  happened  ?  Absolutely  nothing  !  If  there 
were  any  Turks  at  all,  they  were  certainly  not  here. 
Rivarato  had  reported,  too,  that  nothing  had  been 
seen  or  heard  all  night. 

The  sudden  marching  off  of  the  seventh  company 
had  caused  much  amusement.  It  was  really  too 
good  !  An  over-zealous  staff-officer  had  misunderstood 
some  remarks  which  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  com- 
mander of  the  brigade,  and  hurried  away.  When  the 
colonel  came  back,  he  expressed  himself  in  terms 
more  forcible  than  polite. 


44  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Captain  Vitale  straightened  himself,  and  twirled  the 
ends  of  his  moustache. 

'  A  soldier  is  always  ready  !  '  he  said  proudly. 

Alfonso,  who  was  standing  near  the  officers,  nodded. 
He  understood  better  and  better.  An  order  misunder- 
stood, or  indistinctly  given,  might  mean  the  destruc- 
tion of  half  a  regiment.  He  smiled  faintly,  and  slipped 
away. 

The  regiment  that  had  occupied  a  position  between 
two  villages  (whose  names  no  one  knew  at  the  time) 
all  the  night  before,  was  now  to  form  a  long  line  of 
defence.  Axe  and  spade  were  brought  into  use.  Palm- 
trees  came  crashing  to  the  ground  and  were  busily 
dragged  away.  It  was  true  the  palms  were  a  necessity 
of  existence  in  this  country ;  but  they  were  also  excel- 
lent supports  for  the  breast-works.  The  trenches  were 
pegged  out,  and  hundreds  of  soldiers  set  the  sand 
flying  in  clouds.  Bent  backs  were  to  be  seen  in  all 
directions ;  innumerable  busy  hands  in  motion,  while 
the  spades  clashed  in  the  gravel.  The  product  of 
centuries  of  untiring  labour  was  destroyed  in  a  few 
minutes.  When  a  house  stood  in  the  way,  it  was  blown 
up  with  dynamite  :  they  scarcely  gave  the  inhabitants 
time  to  gather  their  most  treasured  possessions. 
Then  away  with  them  whither  they  would.  An  un- 
heard-of energy  was  developed  ;  an  incredible  amount 
of  strength  wasted.  It  would  have  been  impossible  in 
time  of  peace  to  obtain  such  a  motive  power  for  any 
useful  purpose. 

Some  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  district,  who  for 
several  days  had  kept  their  doors  obstinately  locked, 
now  made  tentative  efforts  towards  a  rapprochement. 
They  were  cut  short  with  a  furious  glance  or  brutally 


THE  ANARCHIST  45 

snubbed.  Those  who  had  not  troubled,  or  understood, 
how  to  win  them  in  the  first  place,  now  regarded  them 
with  contempt  and  distrust.  When  an  officer  was 
compelled  by  circumstances  to  consult  the  head  man 
of  a  village,  or  other  distinguished  Arab,  he  addressed 
him  in  a  tone  of  haughty  command.  The  soldiers 
observed  this,  and  imitated  their  superiors.  As  there 
was  seldom  an  interpreter  to  hand  when  needed,  they 
made  themselves  understood  with  the  aid  of  their  fists 
or  the  butts  of  their  rifles.  For  the  rest,  there  was 
no  lack  of  evil  hate-laden  glances  on  the  other  side. 
A  mutual  bitterness  brooded  over  their  feelings. 

In  addition  to  the  strenuous  work  to  which  the 
soldiers  were  driven,  they  were  tormented  with  gloomy 
presentiments.  They  all  perceived  that  a  great — a 
fatal — mistake  had  been  made.  Impatience  and  dis- 
content radiated  from  the  staff  to  the  officers,  and 
these  imparted  the  same  feelings  to  the  troops. 

'  Perhaps,  the  whole  war  .  .  .,'  thought  Alfonso, 
who  had  again  begun  doubting  and  questioning. 

The  certainty  that  they  were  being  driven  forward 
to  make  good  the  errors  of  people  they  would  never  see, 
annoyed  every  one.  Here  they  were  digging  away  in 
the  sand  ....  why  ?  .  .  .  .  yes,  why  ?  Wherever 
they  turned  they  were  mocked  by  questions,  but 
nowhere  did  they  find  an  answer. 

In  the  end  everything  annoyed  them.  The  bare 
suspicion  that  they  were  playing  a  part  in  a  fool's 
comedy  roused  them  to  fury.  They  yearned  for  a 
fight  with  these  Turks  that  they  never  saw,  and  yet 
at  the  same  time  they  wished  to  avoid  it. 

Alfonso  studied  his  comrades  while  he  and  they 
were  at  work.  The  feeling  that  he  was  an  insignificant 


46  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

and  easily  replaceable  part  of  the  whole  was  never  so 
prominent  as  now.  When  his  companions  were 
depressed,  he  became  sad ;  when  they  aired  their  con- 
tempt or  displeasure,  he  thoughtlessly  followed  their 
example.  It  was  as  if  they  all  saw  and  felt  in  exactly 
the  same  manner. 

Rapagnotti  was  the  only  exception.  He  worked 
harder  than  the  others ;  ate  twice  as  much,  and  slept 
like  a  corpse.  Sometimes,  when  looking  at  this  excellent 
machine,  Alfonso  asked  himself  if  he  had  dreamed  the 
adventure  of  a  few  nights  ago.  His  comrade  seemed 
indifferent  to  everything. 

Then  at  last  came  the  battle.  One  night,  south 
of  them,  the  Turks  pushed  forward  a  preparatory 
reconnaissance. 

As  Alfonso  leant  against  the  breast-work  of  the 
trench,  and  watched  the  firing,  like  sparks  flying  about 
in  the  far  distance,  he  asked  himself  what  did  it  all 
mean.  To  understand  it,  one  must  reverse  all  one's 
previous  conceptions;  must  think  backwards.  They 
were  all  mad  together — ha,  ha,  ha!  ...  Suddenly 
he  broke  off,  astonished  and  confused. 

The  third  man  on  his  left  had  also  begun  to  laugh 
— loudly,  violently,  but  with  a  hollow  senseless  ring. 

'  That  is  Lorte,'  thought  Alfonso. 

'  Silence  !   Keep  quiet,  there  !  ' 

Lieutenant  Bianchelli's  thin  girl-like  voice  trembled ; 
his  '  keep  quiet,  there  '  was  almost  swallowed  in  a  gasp. 

But  Lorte  laughed  without  ceasing — a  dry,  rattling 
laugh — which  made  the  soldiers  shiver. 

Far  away  to  the  south  the  rifles  cracked.  The 
noise  rose  and  fell ;  for  a  minute  drowning  every  other 
sound,  and  then  dying  down  to  a  distant  rattle.  Then 


THE  ANARCHIST  47 

Lorte's  sobbing  laugh  was  clearly  audible ;  for  now 
he  was  sobbing  as  well. 

The  men  in  the  firing-line  showed  signs  of  unrest. 
They  crowded  together,  burying  their  hands  in  the 
sand  of  the  breast-work  or  nervously  fingering  the 
triggers  of  their  rifles. 

Then  the  noise  grew  loud  again ;  fire  flashed  out 
and  died  away ;  in  some  places,  whole  sheets  of  flame 
together ;  in  others,  singly  and  far  apart.  Now  and 
then  guns  boomed  heavily.  A  rocket  shot  up,  hissing 
into  the  sky,  and  fell  in  a  wide  curve  to  the  earth. 

Captain  Vitale  whispered  excitedly  to  Lieutenant 
Bianchelli : 

'  That  won't  do  ...  have  him  taken  away  !  ' 

The  firing  to  the  south  became  fainter.  A  last 
gun-shot  crashed.  Then  all  was  silent. 

Lieutenant  Bianchelli  had  called  Corporal  Lantori, 
and  together  they  were  taking  the  still  loud-laughing 
Lorte  out  of  the  ranks. 

'  Another  man  !  '  he  cried,  in  a  smothered  voice. 

Rapagnotti  hurried  up.  '  I  'm  horribly  hungry,'  he 
whispered  to  Alfonso. 

Lorte  was  led  away.  They  heard  his  sobbing  laugh 
growing  fainter  and  fainter  in  the  distance. 

'  I  will  not  go  mad  ! '  murmured  Alfonso.  He  tore 
open  his  tunic,  pushed  his  hand  under  his  shirt,  and 
clawed  his  breast  with  his  nails.  '  I  will  not  go  mad 
.  .  .  anything  rather  than  that.  ..." 

The  second  section  leant  against  the  breast-works 
and  stared  into  the  night.  Nothing  happened.  They 
strained  their  senses  to  the  utmost;  listened  for  a  sound 
in  the  silence  ;  stared  into  the  darkness.  They  longed 
for  the  hubbub  of  battle  to  begin  again  ;  for  the  flashes 


48  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

to  blaze  up  again  on  the  horizon  ...  for  some- 
thing to  happen.  Anything  rather  than  this  un- 
bearable suspense  that  exposed  them  to  the  strangest 
misgivings. 

In  some  places  whispered  questions  and  answers 
were  exchanged. 

'  It  is  over  for  the  present/  Captain  Vitale's  voice 
was  heard  at  the  back.  '  We  have  dusted  their  coats 
to  some  purpose.' 

This  was  a  relief,  and  rejoiced  all  hearts.  It  is 
true  they  had  only  been  spectators  of  the  fight;  yet  they 
had,  in  a  way,  contributed  in  the  rout  of  the  enemy.  It 
was  known  that  they  were  there ;  that  was  sufficient. 
This  led  them  to  think  of  the  huge  number  they  contri- 
buted to.  The  men  conceived  a  vague  notion  of  the 
powerful  machine  of  which  they  formed  a  tiny  part.  In 
the  third  section  some  one  began  to  sing  a  comic  song 
half  aloud. 

Rapagnotti  came  back  and  jumped  heavily  into 
the  trench.  He  smelt  of  wine,  and  licked  his  lips.  . 

'  A  little  behind  the  artillery  they  have  a  large 
hospital.  A  hospital  orderly  gave  me  a  drink  of  wine,' 
he  told  them.  '  Lorte  ?  Oh,  nothing  serious.  When 
an  opportunity  occurs  he  will  be  sent  home.' 

'  Home  ?  ' 

Feretto's  voice  trembled  with  ill-disguised  envy. 

'  Temporary  aberration,'  explained  Rapagnotti 
importantly.  '  But  three  fellows  from  number  four 
company  are  much  worse — you  remember  one  of  them 
went  raving  mad  before  .  .  .' 

'  Silence,  there  ! '  sounded  the  voice  of  Captain 
Vitale. 

'  He  is  everywhere  at  once,'  whispered  Rapagnotti 


THE   ANARCHIST  49 

crossly  to  Alfonso.  The  wine  had  put  the  countryman 
in  a  good  humour,  and  he  wanted  to  talk. 

At  midnight  the  sentries  were  doubled  ;  the  rest  of 
the  troops  could  sleep. 

The  officers  collected  in  groups,  and  conversed  in 
undertones.  An  attack  might  be  expected  at  any 
minute.  Perhaps  at  daybreak.  It  was  only  a  question 
whether  it  would  be  directed  against  their  regiment, 
which  occupied  rather  an  advanced  position. 

The  colonel  appeared  in  the  company  of  a  staff- 
officer  and  passed  by. 

'  My  men  are  not  sufficient !  Make  that  clear  to  the 
general !  '  he  said  excitedly.  '  This  wing  is  in  the  air 
— unsupported.  I  want  .  .  .  No,  I  must  have  .  .  .' 

More  than  this  the  officers  did  not  hear. 

Suddenly  Lieutenant  Bianchelli  began  to  laugh 
aloud  like  a  child  that  is  tickled  till  it  is  out  of  breath. 
The  laugh  broke  from  his  white  lips  and  rose  to  an 
attack  of  hysterics  that  shook  his  delicate  frame. 

»'  Good  heavens  !  .  .  .  my  dear  Bianchelli  .  .  . 
Keep  up ! '  Captain  Vitale  threw  his  arm,  like  a  father, 
round  the  lieutenant's  shoulders  and  led  him  away. 
'  Quickly  now ;  a  drop  of  brandy  .  .  .Has  anyone 
a  drop  of  brandy  ?  ' 

A  pocket  electric  light  illuminated  Bianchelli's 
pale  face.  The  lieutenant's  eyes  were  moist  with 
tears  of  grief  and  pain.  He  stared  helplessly  at  the 
others.  Some  one  held  out  a  pocket-flask,  which  was 
immediately  seized  in  Captain  Vitale's  huge  fist. 

'  Here,  Bianchelli !  A  good  drink  !  The  poor  fellow 
has  not  shut  his  eyes  for  three  nights  !  Simply  over- 
strain !  Now,  head  up  !  Another  drop  !  '  Captain 
Vitale  led  the  lieutenant  away,  and  his  friendly 


50  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

admonitions,  mingled  with  the  lieutenant's  spasmodic 
laughter,  died  away  slowly  among  the  palms. 

The  group  of  officers  had  become  silent,  until  one 
of  them  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  muttered  '  good 
night !  ' 

Their  hands  went  up  in  salute  ;  and,  directly  after, 
their  steps  were  heard  in  the  sand  as  they  parted  in 
different  directions. 

'  Good  night ! ' 

At  daybreak  the  guns  behind  the  regiment  began 
to  thunder.  Half  asleep,  the  men  of  number  seven 
company  tumbled  over  one  another  into  the  trenches. 
They  spied  eagerly  between  the  palm-trees,  their  rifles 
resting  on  the  breast- works.  The  first  section  had 
fallen  back,  and  waited  in  reserve  with  the  artillery. 
Here  and  there  a  cloud  of  sand  spun  round  or  floated 
by.  All  at  once  the  soldiers  blazed  away,  and 
cried : 

'  The  Turks  !  ...  the  Turks  ! ' 

From  the  southward  rattled  an  unbroken  rifle 
fire — a  monotonous  music  to  which  the  cannons 
played  a  bass. 

Alfonso  cowered  in  his  place.  He  sweated  with 
excitement,  but  managed  to  keep  his  self-control. 
Feretto  and  his  two  neighbours  turned  continually 
aside,  laughing  and  apparently  talking  together. 

Suddenly  something  whistled  over  Alfonso's  head. 
He  shrank  involuntarily,  and  peeped  at  his  comrades. 
They  were  nearly  all  crouched  at  the  bottom  of  the 
trench.  Over  their  heads  the  bullets  whistled  and 
hummed  unceasingly — ringing  like  hard,  far-reaching 
whip-strokes.  They  followed  one  after  another  ;  be- 
ginning with  an  angry  hiss,  and  increasing  immediately 


THE  ANARCHIST  51 

to  a  rushing  sound  that  was  cut  through  in  the  same 
instant  by  the  next.  An  unbroken  shower  of  bullets 
tore  the  air  about  two  yards  above  their  heads.  They 
whined  and  whistled  and  hissed  and  spat.  It  was  an 
indescribable  torture  :  a  moan  of  lament,  a  tormenting 
whine.  The  nerves  of  the  soldiers  soon  went  to  pieces 
under  these  whizzing  showers  that  seemed  to  go  on  for 
ever. 

The  men  in  the  trenches  poked  their  rifles  over  the 
breast-work  and  fired  in  the  air.  They  had  lost  all 
power  of  thought ;  their  feelings  were  in  a  whirl.  After 
a  while  they  became  accustomed  to  the  noise  in  the 
air.  The  Turks  fired  too  high ;  so  far,  no  one  was 
wounded.  A  feeling  of  contempt  arose  for  an  enemy 
who  seemed  incapable  of  hurting  them.  One  head 
after  another  appeared  above  the  breast-work  with 
frowning  protruding  eyes  that  stared  straight  ahead ; 
but  they  could  discover  nothing.  Nothing  but  a  row 
of  wave-like  sand-hills.  Here  and  there  a  thin  veil  of 
smoke  drifted  in  the  wind. 

All  around  rifles  rattled  and  guns  boomed. 

'  Sight  at  800  yards  ! '  roared  Captain  Vitale. 

Non-commissioned  officers  repeated  the  command  ; 
but,  although  everyone  heard,  scarcely  anyone 
obeyed.  With  feverish  impatience  the  men  blazed 
their  cartridges  away,  flinging  pounds  of  bullets  into  the 
sand.  It  was  a  case  of  outdoing  the  enemy  in  noise ;  of 
making  oneself  deaf  to  what  was  happening.  Unbroken 
activity ;  continuous  occupation ;  no  pause  for  thought. 
A  storm  of  lead  rattled  out  of  the  barrels,  and  was 
scattered  over  the  sand. 

Alfonso  fired  like  his  comrades.  He  took  no  aim  : 
indeed,  there  was  nothing  to  aim  at.  Mechanically  he 

E  2 


52  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

inserted  cartridges  into  the  breech  and  pressed  the 
trigger.  Suddenly  he  started  and  looked  round. 
Some  one  touched  him  .  .  .  what  was  this  ?  Sergeant 
Lucinello  lay  at  full  length  on  the  ground.  He  held 
both  hands  over  his  mouth  ;  blood  trickled  through 
his  fingers.  And,  yonder,  Corporal  Lantori  tottered  out 
of  the  lines.  His  faithful  dog-like  eyes  told  of  fear 
and  astonishment ;  they  had  lost  every  trace  of  human 
expression.  Alfonso's  blood  ran  cold.  Something 
inexplicable,  something  dangerous,  was  going  on ;  some- 
thing .  .  .  Feretto  fell  heavily  forward,  slid  under  the 
wall,  and  lay  like  a  stone.  His  comrade,  the  second 
man  from  Alfonso,  turned  round  and  stared  up  at  a 
cactus-hedge  that  lay  thirty  or  forty  paces  to  the  rear. 
Did  he  think  the  danger  came  from  there  ? 

'  There  lie  the  Turks  ! '  cried  Alfonso,  and  pointed 
to  the  opposite  side. 

From  all  sides  questions  and  answers  were  shouted. 
Lieutenant  Bianchelli,  who  had  a  red  weal  right  across 
one  cheek — it  looked  as  if  he  had  been  hit  with  a  stick 
— waved  his  sword  and  issued  some  command. 

Down  in  the  trenches  the  men  were  gathered  to- 
gether in  helpless  bewildered  groups.  They  roared 
and  gesticulated ;  shook  their  rifles  and  stamped  on  the 
ground.  Tall,  strong  and  savage,  Captain  Vitale 
towered  above  the  crowd.  The  sword  in  his  hand 
described  furious  curves ;  pointing  not  forwards, 
but  back  towards  the  cactus-hedge  on  the  slope 
behind. 

Alfonso  tried  to  think.  Were  they  surrounded  ? 
Yes,  certainly ;  there  came  flashes  between  the  fleshy 
cactus-leaves.  From  yonder  hillock  they  were  being 
shot  at. 


THE  ANARCHIST  53 

From  Rapagnotti's  throat  came  a  hoarse  roar.  It 
sounded  as  if  some  prehistoric  monster,  awakened 
from  a  century  of  sleep,  crouched  for  a  decisive  spring. 
Round  about  other  hoarse  shouts  replied  to  the 
summons  of  Rapagnotti's  war-cry. 

The  men  raised  their  heads ;  their  eyes  glowed ;  they 
pointed  with  wide-open  mouths.  Lieutenant  Bianchelli 
sprang  out  of  the  trench,  the  whole  section  after  him. 
A  universal  howl  rose  from  their  dry  throats.  Their 
lowest  instincts  roseto  the  surface ;  mental  defects  and 
deformities  came  to  light.  Alfonso  made  a  renewed 
attempt  to  think.  He  fell  into  a  rage  when  he  found 
it  beyond  him. 

He  clawed  the  sand  with  his  nails,  climbed  over  the 
edge,  and  began  to  run.  Comrades  ran  on  either  side 
of  him.  Their  faces  had  lost  all  human  semblance ;  they 
were  brutes.  It  flashed  through  Alfonso's  brain  that 
he  should  not  give  way  to  this  impulse  which  drove  him 
forward  with  the  others  ;  but  he  could  not  hold  back. 
He  was  taken  up  and  washed  on  in  this  flood  of  brutish 
cries  and  maniac  ravings.  He  became  one  with  the 
others,  and  roared  as  they  did,  as  long  as  he  had 
breath  in  his  lungs. 

The  section  rushed  madly  down  the  slope.  On  the 
right  a  company  of  infantry  appeared,  as  if  conjured 
out  of  the  ground,  and  ran  in  the  same  direction. 

Alfonso  saw  Lieutenant  Bianchelli  plunge  through 
an  opening  in  the  cactus-hedge.  The  first  and  second 
sections  stormed  after  him.  Alfonso  himself  had 
gone  too  far  to  the  left ;  he  turned,  and  ran  along  the 
hedge.  He  ran  straight  into  a  wall,  and  fell  back 
cursing.  Everything  seemed  arranged  to  increase  his 
fury.  Running  into  a  wall  .  .  .  hang  it !  ...  no  ! 


54  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Ha !  he  found  an  opening  and  rushed  into  the 
enclosure.  Something  whisked  by.  No  uniform,  so 
he  fired. 

A  shrill  cry  of  pain  replied.  He  had  shot  a  woman  ! 
What  business  had  a  woman  to  be  about  on  such  a 
day  ?  Beside  himself,  he  let  fly  again. 

'  Hi !  Zirilli !  '  It  was  Rapagnotti  that  called. 
'  Over  here,  comrade  ! ' 

Alfonso  hurried  in  the  direction  of  the  voice. 

'  Here  we  are  .  .  .  don't  you  recognise  the  house  ?  ' 

They  flung  themselves  over  a  low  wall,  and  Alfonso 
cursed  again  ;  he  had  fallen  on  his  knees.  Rapagnotti 
darted  through  a  low  door  into  the  house.  Alfonso 
heard  the  sound  of  something  being  smashed  to  pieces, 
and,  immediately  after,  women  and  children  screaming 
with  fright. 

'  Thieves !  .  .  .  Traitors  .  .  .  ! '  raged  Rapag- 
notti, beside  himself  with  exasperation. 

Alfonso  entered,  and  bumped  his  head  against  the 
lintel.  Everything  on  this  accursed  day  seemed  in 
conspiracy  to  hurt  and  hinder  him. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  Rapagnotti,  who 
thrust  with  the  butt  of  his  rifle,  at  a  woman  who 
cowered  in  a  corner.  Two  children  hid  in  terror  behind 
their  mother. 

'  I  have  been  cheated !  '  screamed  Rapagnotti. 
'  Look,  look  !  the  pitcher  is  empty  !  They  have  stolen 
my  money  ! '  He  pointed  to  the  fragments  on  the 
floor.  '  Thieves  !  .  .  .  rascals  !  .  .  .' 

Alfonso  had  to  laugh.  The  other  was  so  ridiculous 
in  his  fury.  He  said — though  not  out  of  pity  for 
the  woman  and  children  who  were  half  dead  with 
fear : 


THE  ANARCHIST  55 

'  There  is  plenty  more  ...  in  other  places.' 

Rapagnotti  lowered  his  head  like  a  bull  about  to 
charge,  and  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

'  If  we  make  haste,  before  the  others  get  there, 
then  .  .  .' 

He  hurried  out  of  the  door,  Alfonso  after  him.  He 
was  glad  to  follow  another's  lead ;  he  did  not  want 
to  think,  only  to  do  as  the  others  did. 

'  There  is  the  house  of  the  head  man  of  the  village, 
he  .  .  .' 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  swallowed  in  an 
irregular  salvo  that  was  fired  from  behind  the  cactus- 
hedge.  They  met  a  score  or  so  of  infantrymen,  who 
escorted  in  their  'midst  several  old  men,  women,  and 
children ;  and  Rapagnotti  again  gave  vent  to  his 
savage  roar.  The  soldiers  replied  in  the  same  manner  ; 
and  one  of  them  began,  without  the  least  occasion, 
to  thump  an  old  man  in  the  back  with  his  rifle. 
Rapagnotti  looked  back  and  laughed. 

A  crowd  of  women  and  children  had  taken  refuge 
in  the  house  of  the  head  man.  A  confused  medley  of 
veils,  arms,  legs,  and  clothes  of  various  colours,  was 
crowded  into  a  corner.  Rapagnotti  plunged  his  hand 
with  a  roar  into  this  living  heap  and  snatched  a  veil. 
The  shrivelled,  death-white  face  of  an  old  woman 
met  his  eyes.  Rapagnotti  hissed  with  rage,  spat, 
and  shouted  : 

'  Money !  .  .  .  money !  .  .  .' 

A  trembling  hand  pointed  to  an  adjacent  room. 
With  one  leap  Rapagnotti  was  in  it.  He  was  guided 
by  instincts  which,  until  now,  had  slumbered  in  the 
depths,  and  to-day  came  to  the  surface. 

There  was  a  sound  of  repeated  blows,  of  something 


56  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

smashed  and  scattered  over  the  threshold.    Then  a 
cry  of  delight  rang  out. 

Alfonso  remained  standing,  leaning  on  his  rifle. 
Suddenly  he  thought  of  Lorte  and  began  to  laugh. 
And  now,  all  at  once,  his  mind  began  to  work  easily 
and  logically.  While  the  laughter  lay  on  his  lips  his 
brain  filled  with  thoughts  ;  freely,  without  effort,  they 
followed  one  after  another. 

A  convulsive  shiver  ran  through  the  heap  of  woman- 
kind ;  wide-open  horrified  eyes  gazed  up  in  an  agony 
of  fear  at  the  motionless  figure  that  leant  on  his  rifle 
and  laughed — laughed  unceasingly — softly,  gently,  and 
kindly. 

Rapagnotti  appeared  again.  His  trouser-pockets 
bulged,  and  several  copper  coins  overflowed  from  them 
on  to  the  floor  ;  but  he  did  not  deign  to  stoop  for  them 
— he  had  plenty. 

'  Madonna  Addolorata,  I  thank  thee  !  '  He  prayed 
and  crossed  himself  devoutly.  And  in  a  sudden 
access  of  generosity  he  held  out  a  handful  of  money 
to  Alfonso. 

'  Grazie,  comrade  ! '  Alfonso  put  the  money  in  his 
pocket ;  to.  refuse  it  would  have  been  mere  stupidity. 
He  nodded ;  and,  obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  he 
shouted : 

'  Long  live  anarchy  !  ' 

Rapagnotti  was  at  his  side  in  an  instant. 

'  I  won't  have  that !  '  he  said  threateningly. 

'  No,  of  course !  .  .  .  '  Alfonso  laughed  loudly 
and  cheerfully  ;  at  last  all  was  clear.  He  needed  an 
opportunity  for  an  outbreak,  and  he  shouted  with 
all  his  strength : 

'  Long  live  war  ! ' 


THE  ANARCHIST  57 

An  expression  of  satisfaction  passed  over  the 
face  of  Rapagnotti. 

'  That 's  right !  '  he  roared  ;  '  three  cheers  for  war  !  ' 

'  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  '  laughed  Alfonso  immoderately  at 
the  thought  of  what  was  going  on  all  round. 

On  the  right  hand  sounded  shot  after  shot ;  while 
women  wailed  and  begged  for  mercy,  and  children 
vented  their  fear  in  shrill  screams.  To  the  left  .  .  . 
What  was  that  ?  Hurrah  !  Some  officers  were  playing 
at  target  practice.  The  target  was  a  group  of  Arabs, 
who  had  been  driven  into  a  corner  made  by  two 
garden  walls.  And,  yonder,  a  number  of  men,  women, 
and  children  were  being  driven  along  with  bayonets 
and  heavy  blows  from  rifle  butts.  If  one  stumbled 
he  was  whipped  up  at  once.  It  was  a  horrible  man- 
hunt of  uninterrupted  blows,  kicks,  and  shooting. 

'  Long  live  anar  .  .  .  !  '  No  ;  it  was  a  crime  to 
say  that.  '  Long  live  war !  '  that  was  it.  That 
was  laudable  and  patriotic,  signified  courage  and 
bravery,  and  was  rewarded. 

The  scales  had  fallen  from  his  eyes,  he  saw  and 
understood.  War  was  anarchy — organised,  perfected. 
The  long  period  of  probation  during  which  he  had 
ground  his  teeth  and  suffered  the  torments  of  the 
damned,  had  been  necessary  for  this. 

Alfonso  ran  down  the  road.  He  wished  to  see  the 
horror  in  the  brown  faces,  to  hear  the  screams  of 
lamentation,  to  tread  on  live  bodies  that  writhed 
beneath  his  feet.  Above,  they  were  baiting  the 
prisoners ;  yonder  .  .  . 

Every  war  was  an  outbreak  of  anarchy.  To 
think  that  he  had  not  seen  that  at  once  !  One  attacked 
another  in  the  hope  that  he  was  the  weaker.  If  one 


58  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

succeeded  in  stealing  a  province,  it  was  celebrated  in 
poetry  and  prose.  The  result  justified  the  meanest 
attack.  If  one  could  keep  what  was  stolen,  one 
deserved  the  victory. 

In  this  universal  eruption  of  hate,  spite,  and 
savagery,  Alfonso  found  his  thoughts  lukewarm  and 
immaterial.  War  was  the  apotheosis  of  crime — in 
comparison  with  which  all  else  seemed  equally  small 
and  insignificant. 

Look  !  there  rolled  a  dying  Arab  in  the  sand,  a  few 
paces  from  the  hospital  over  which  fluttered  the 
red  cross  on  a  white  ground  ! 

Four  or  five  doctors  observed  with  curiosity  his 
convulsive  movements.  An  officer,  an  elegant  dandy, 
in  spite  of  dust  and  dirt,  was  handling  a  camera  ;  he 
wished  to  take  a  photograph  of  this  scene  to  keep  as  a 
souvenir. 

'  Long  live  war  !  '  roared  Alfonso,  as  he  ran  by  him. 
He  had  reversed  his  mind,  and  thought  backwards ; 
it  was  over.  And  all  the  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
ordinarily  decent  righteous  citizens  thought  as  he 
did  and  acted  as  he  did.  Yes  ;  they  acted,  while  he 
indulged  in  fancies.  Where  was  that  troop  of  prisoners 
that  he  had  just  been  following  ?  Ah,  over  there  !  He 
loaded  his  rifle,  and  began  to  overtake  them  with  long 
strides. 

While  he  hastened  forward  his  mind  still  worked  in 
this  new  direction.  He  repented  his  distrust  of  their 
leaders.  They  were  no  traitors ;  he  saw  that  now. 
They  thought  and  felt  as  he  did ;  were  true  and  honour- 
able, and  knew  what  they  did.  That  he  could  have 
been  so  blind  !  Hurrah  !  He  would  show  that  he  was 
worthy  to  rank  with  the  glorious  leaders  of  a  famous 


THE  ANARCHIST  59 

nation.  Praise  to  those  who  ventured  to  send  an  army 
into  a  strange  land  whose  inhabitants  were  not  pre- 
pared to  defend  themselves  !  These  miserable  wretches 
— did  they  not  know  that  the  strong  do  what  they 
will? 

'  Hurrah  for  anar  .  .  .  !  '  Nonsense  !  This  pitiful 
anarchy  battened  on  wild  words  in  secret  places,  and 
never  went  farther  than  an  outrage  on  single  individuals. 
A  fraud  !  Here  was  something  different,  something 
great,  sublime  !  To  seize  a  whole  nation  by  the  throat 
and  conquer,  kill,  wipe  them  out.  .  .  . 

'  Long  live  war  !  Hurrah  ! '  This  newly  fired 
patriotism,  which,  until  now,  he  had  looked  on  as  an 
obstacle  to  anyone  who  wished  to  think  fairly  and 
justly,  gave  him  unsuspected  strength.  He  flew  over 
the  ground,  his  rifle  outstretched,  his  hand  on  the 
trigger. 

In  a  disordered  heap  the  prisoners  stumbled  along 
the  road.  Their  guards  were  tired  of  ill-treating  them  ; 
they  wished  to  be  free  of  this  living  burden.  Alfonso 
pushed  between  the  soldiers  and  fired  at  an  Arab,  who, 
wounded  in  the  foot,  lagged  behind  his  companions  in 
misfortune. 

'  Evviva  Italia  !  '  roared  Alfonso  as  the  shot  rang 
out. 

'  Evviva  Italia ! '  answered  a  score  of  voices. 
'  Hurrah  !  long  live  the  war  ! ' 

Shots  sounded,  blows  were  showered,  bayonet- 
thrusts  were  freely  distributed. 

Trembling  with  joy,  Alfonso  loaded  again.  The 
insignificant  printer  felt  himself  grow.  Stood  he  not 
with  equal  rights  beside  the  originators  of  the  war  ? 
Was  he  not  of  equal  birth  ? 


60  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  Hurrah  for  the  war  !    Hurrah  !  ' 

Here  Rapagnotti,  of  whom  he  had  lost  sight  for 
some  time,  reappeared  at  his  side. 

'  Don't  bother  about  them  !  '  he  said  eagerly. 
'  They  have  not  a  farthing  !  Let  us  make  for  the 
town,  where  they  are  rich  !  Come,  comrade  !  ' 

Alfonso  stared  in  his  face  in  astonishment.  This 
eternally  hungry  farmer  was  a  very  lamb. 

'  All  right  !  '  he  shouted.  The  solution  of  the  war 
was  :  '  Your  money  or  your  life  !  Hurrah  ! ' 

He  followed  in  the  same  direction  as  the  other, 
whose  every  step  was  guided  by  greed.  Following  a 
sudden  impulse,  he  snatched  off  his  cap  and  stuck  it  on 
the  point  of  his  bayonet.  With  his  rifle  high  in  the 
air,  so  that  the  plumes  fluttered  in  the  wind,  he 
shouted  from  time  to  time  : 

'  Long  live  war  !   Hurrah  !   Hurrah  !   Hurrah  ! ' 

Rapagnotti  tramped  beside  him.  His  lips  moved, 
as  he  prayed.  Strengthened  by  his  prayer,  he  cried 
with  a  ringing  voice  : 

'  War  for  ever  !  ' 


II 

HAMZA    AND    HANIFA 

THROUGHOUT  his  life,  Hamza,  whom  men  called  '  the 
Simple/  had  had  good  fortune  in  all  things.  This  was 
what  he  himself  often  asserted. 

'  Allah  has  shown  himself  gracious  to  his  servant,' 
were  his  words.  And  then  he  would  add :  '  Blessed 
are  the  pure  in  heart ! ' 

He  was  now  sixty  years  of  age,  and  lived  with 
Hanifa — as  old  as  himself — in  a  little  clay-built  hut 
before  the  western  gate  of  the  city.  As  he  sat  in  his 
garden,  he  had  on  the  one  side  a  steep-ridged  sand-hill, 
and  on  the  other  the  rampart  ditch — long  since  nearly 
filled  up  again.  In  the  rainy  season  the  ditch  over- 
flowed with  water,  and  Hamza  would  often  go  up  the 
sand-hill  to  look  down  upon  this  gift  of  Heaven.  But, 
for  ten  months  in  the  year,  the  broad  furrow  in  the 
ground  was  dry  ;  the  sand  trickled  down  its  sides,  and 
foot-passengers  made  their  way  across  it.  Beyond 
the  ditch  rose  a  wall  of  weathered  stones.  Hamza 
seldom  set  foot  in  the  region  behind  this  wall  oftener 
than  each  Monday,  when  he  took  his  dates  to  market. 
As  soon  as  the  last  buyer  had  scraped  together  the 

61 


62  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

last  remnant  of  his  wares,  he  hoisted  his  basket  on  his 
shoulder  and  went  home.  He  had  accomplished  the 
chief  work  of  the  week.  After  that,  he  would  sit 
smoking  at  the  door  of  his  hut,  and  wait  quietly  for 
the  next  market-day. 

On  the  slope,  to  the  westward,  stood  his  ten  date- 
palms  ;  below  them  was  the  hut.  When  Hamza 
glanced  to  the  northward,  he  could  catch  sight  of  a 
streak  of  the  glittering  waters  of  the  Mediterranean 
Sea.  If  his  eyes  followed  the  way  to  the  southward, 
he  thought,  at  times,  he  could  see  the  hills  looming 
blue  in  the  distance. 

More  than  forty  years  ago  he  had  come  thence 
with  a  party  of  other  Berbers.  He  was  then  a  thick- 
set, broad-shouldered  young  man,  and  looked  with 
curious  eyes  on  all  the  new  things  it  was  his  lot  to  see. 
As  he  and  his  eight  comrades,  who  had  all  set  out  to 
seek  their  fortune,  caught  sight  from  afar  of  the  western 
gate  of  Tripoli,  Hamza  halted,  and  pointed  to  the 
sand-hill  on  which  his  house  now  stood. 

'  On  that  spot  I  shall  grow  old/  he  said. 

The  other  eight  laughed  aloud ;  and  Ibn  Saud, 
whom  the  tribesmen  called  '  the  Black,'  because  his 
eyes  were  black  as  coal,  and  he  had  a  growth  of  beard 
seldom  seen  on  a  man  of  his  years,  said  : 

'  But  I  see  no  house.' 

'  That  I  shall  build  with  my  own  hands  on  the  slope 
of  the  farthest  hill.  Before  it  I  shall  plant  ten  date- 
palms  :  one  for  myself,  and  one  for  each  of  you — for 
you  have  come  with  me  as  true  friends — and  the 
tenth  for  my  wife.' 

The  other  eight  laughed  again;  and  Taleb,  who 
loved  a  jest,  cried  out : 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  63 

'  Hamza  is  already  dreaming  of  a  sweetheart  ! 
Who  will  sing  the  wedding-song  for  thee  ?  ' 

'  I  am  not  dreaming/  said  Hamza,  seriously ;  '  I 
know  I  shall  meet  her  here  in  the  city.  She  will  be 
the  mother  of  my  children,  and  we  shall  both  grow  old 
together  in  the  little  hut  that  I  shall  build  with  these 
hands  of  mine  when  the  time  comes.' 

His  seriousness  stayed  the  jest  on  the  lips  of  his 
hearers,  and  they  went  onward  in  silence.  They  were 
used  to  Hamza's  way,  and  they  had  no  reproach  to 
make  to  him ;  for  from  childhood  he  had  always 
been  pious  and  a  believer  in  God,  the  Merciful  and 
Compassionate. 

The  nine  young  men  parted  in  the  city.  Ibn 
Saud  and  Taleb  soon  took  to  the  sea.  They  worked 
on  board  a  felucca  that  sailed  along  the  coast.  The 
sea  fascinated  their  minds,  and,  after  they  .had  for 
a  while  picked  their  way  along  its  coasts,  on  board  the 
felucca,  they  sailed  away  one  day  on  a  great  merchant 
ship,  whose  masts  soon  vanished  to  the  eastward 
beyond  the  reach  of  sight.  Hamza  never  saw 
them  again,  though  they  ever  remained  in  his 
memory. 

Three  of  Hamza's  friends  became  soldiers.  It  well 
befits  a  man  to  bear  arms  and  set  his  life  on  the  wager 
of  battle.  One  of  them  was  wounded  in  an  insurrec- 
tion, and  died  immediately  after.  The  second  rose 
to  the  rank  of  non-commissioned  officer,  and,  finally, 
went  off  to  Syria  ;  his  former  comrades  did  not  know 
whether  he  was  still  alive  or  not.  The  third  deserted 
from  his  regiment.  Some  camel-drivers  brought 
Hamza  now  and  then  a  greeting  from  him.  All  the 
same,  they  would  not  say  where  he  was  living. 


64  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  May  Allah  direct  his  steps  upon  the  right  way/ 
said  Hamza  each  time. 

Two  of  his  friends  soon  went  back  to  their  villages, 
on  the  high  plateau  of  the  interior.  The  air  on  the 
coast  was  not  dry  enough  for  their  lungs.  A  great 
longing  drew  them  away  to  the  greyish  yellow  expanses, 
where  the  sun  burned  upon  their  brows  and  for  weeks 
at  a  time  the  heat  compelled  them  to  absolute  in- 
activity. He  who  had  stayed  behind  had  long  watched 
them  as  they  went  away,  and  waved  his  adieu  to 
them.  They,  too,  sent  their  greetings  often  to  Hamza. 
He  sent  his  in  return,  rejoicing  that  his  friends  were 
doing  well.  Then,  when  for  some  years  he  heard  no 
more  of  them,  he  knew  that  they  had  died,  and  he 
went  to  the  tomb  of  a  holy  man,  and,  turning  to 
the  east,  prayed  long  for  those  who  had  already 
gone  before  him,  but  whom  he  would  some  day  see 
again. 

The  ninth  of  the  comrades,  Ali  Schekr,  was  hardly 
ten  years  old  when  the  party  arrived  at  the  city.  For 
a  long  time  he  followed  Hamza  like  a  faithful  dog.  By 
the  time  that  he  was  thirty  he  joined  the  police.  He 
and  Hamza  met  nearly  every  week,  and  talked  of  their 
friends,  though  there  was  more  of  this  talk  at  first  than 
there  was  now. 

Hamza  himself,  after  his  arrival  at  Tripoli,  rambled 
about  by  the  harbour  for  some  days  and  looked  upon 
the  sea.  Every  time  that  he  thought  of  its  wayward 
restlessness,  there  came  over  him  a  strange  longing. 
But  much  as  it  charmed  and  fascinated  him,  he  had 
never  yet  gone  beyond  the  outer  breakwater. 

'  The  feet  of  men  are  made  for  the  solid  earth,'  he 
said.  '  Let  those  who  cannot  resist  their  longings 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  65 

plough  the  sea.  I  shall  not  do  so.  I  shall  seek  the 
blessing  of  Allah  by  digging  in  the  earth.' 

Nevertheless,  Hamza  was  at  first  a  boatman  in 
the  harbour.  From  a  man  who  owned  several  boats 
he  hired  one,  agreeing  to  pay  him  half  his  earnings. 
When  a  ship  lay  to,  off  the  harbour,  Hamza  with  Ali 
Schekr  rowed  out  to  her  to  bring  in  passengers  and 
their  belongings.  He  had  soon  thoroughly  learned  the 
handling  of  the  heavy  boat,  and  young  Ali  was  a  good 
helper  to  him.  Hamza  not  seldom  came  back  with 
plenty  of  copper  coins.  He  divided  them  honourably 
with  the  owner  of  the  boat. 

'  God  sees  all,'  he  would  say,  '  and  I  have  kept  my 
promise."' 

But  the  owner  of  the  boat  was  an  avaricious  and, 
therefore,  a  quarrelsome  fellow.  He  sat  all  day  long 
by  the  shore,  followed  his  boats  with  his  eyes,  and 
called  the  boatmen  to  him  as  soon  as  they  touched 
the  land.  When  they  came,  he  would  at  once  ask  them 
for  some  money,  and,  when  he  got  it,  seldom  gave 
them  any  thanks.  He  was  always  wrangling  with  his 
boatmen,  and  they,  whether  they  were  Arabs,  Turks, 
Berbers,  or  Nubians,  wrangled  with  him.  No  one 
hired  a  boat  for  longer  than  a  month  from  this  owner 
— no  one,  except  Hamza. 

Without  any  feeling  of  irritation  he  allowed  the 
boat-owner  to  take  more  than  belonged  to  him  by 
right. 

'  He  loses  more  by  it  than  I  do/  Hamza  would 
answer  when  the  other  boatmen  blamed  him  for  being 
so  easy-going.  '  We  live  not  for  the  present,  but  for 
the  future  life.' 

No  one  ventured  to  deny  that  Hamza  was  right ; 


66  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

but  the  boatmen  liked  neither  the  sentiments  nor  the 
business  methods  of  their  colleague. 

Hamza  only  smiled  at  them.  For  many  years  he 
remained  a  boatman.  At  last  he  got  tired  of  the 
business  and  managed  to  get  himself  a  place  in  the 
customs  service. 

He  was  already  known  in  the  port  and  the  market 
place  as  an  upright,  but  rather  simple-minded,  man. 
At  first  he  was  welcome  to  his  new  comrades  ;  but  they 
soon  wished  to  be  rid  of  him.  When  they  suggested  to 
him  that  he  might  get  something  for  himself  out  of  the 
belongings  of  the  travellers,  he  seemed  not  to  under- 
stand them  ;  and  if  some  one  pressed  a  coin  into  his  hand, 
Hamza  would  often  give  it  back  to  him  before  every- 
body's eyes.  So,  henceforth,  Hamza  did  his  work  day 
by  day  among  the  custom-house  officers  without 
allowing  his  hands  to  be  guilty  of  any  base  action  or 
his  thoughts  to  sin  against  God. 

'  You  are  a  pious  man,  Hamza ! '  said  the  over- 
seer one  day  to  him ;  '  but  you  are  too  simple.  You 
are  not  the  man  for  us.' 

'  In  the  name  of  God,  the  Good  and  the  Just !  ' 
replied  Hamza,  and  bowed  and  went  away. 

After  this  he  became  a  porter  in  the  city,  and  did 
well  in  the  business ;  for  his  reputation  as  an  upright 
man  had  become  a  settled  thing  and  made  people 
eager  to  employ  him.  While  other  porters  squatted 
idly  by  the  walls  of  the  houses,  Hamza  had  enough  to 
do.  Then  they  chose  him  for  their  head  man. 

For  twelve  long  years  Hamza  held  this  position. 
And  though  the  porters  were  cunning  enough  to  impose 
on  him  worse  terms  than  those  of  his  predecessor  in 
the  office,  yet  a  just  Providence  so  disposed  it  that  they, 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  67 

as  well  as  Hamza,  took  more  money  when  the  week's 
earnings  were  shared  out  each  Thursday.  Most  of 
them  soon  saw  that  Hamza's  predecessor  had  been 
regularly  swindling  them,  and  they  heartily  congratu- 
lated themselves  on  their  choice ;  but  some  were 
discontented — that,  however,  is  a  thing  one  can  never 
avoid. 

After  Hamza  had  many  times  had  to  listen  to 
their  complaints,  he  one  day  called  all  the  porters 
together  and  bade  them  a  friendly  farewell. 

Most  of  them  asked  him  to  remain  with  them  and 
let  everything  go  on  as  before.  But  Hamza  would 
not  consent. 

'  It  is  not  on  account  of  the  discontent  and  the 
complaints,'  he  said — '  who  am  I,  that  I,  forsooth, 
should  go  unblamed  through  the  world  ? — but  it  is  for 
my  own  sake.  Man  is  made  to  dig  the  earth,  and 
support  himself  with  the  fruits  of  the  trees  and  the 
produce  of  the  fields  :  not  to  bear  burdens  like  a  camel.' 
And  with  this  he  took  a  friendly  leave  of  them,  being 
most  courteous  to  those  who  had  been  complaining. 
'You  are  losing  more  than  I  do,'  he  said  to  them 
before  he  went  away. 

At  his  lodging  Hamza  pulled  out  the  bag  which 
contained  the  money  that  made  up  his  savings.  With 
this  in  his  hand  he  betook  himself  to  the  bazaar. 

While  Hamza  was  the  head  man  of  the  porters  he 
had  seen  Hanifa,  who  was  in  service  in  the  house  of 
an  artisan  in  the  street  of  the  silversmiths.  Hanifa 
had  also  been  born  on  the  high  plateau  in  the  interior 
of  the  country,  and  came  of  the  same  tribe  as  Hamza. 
Hamza  went  straight  to  her  from  the  meeting  of  the 
porters. 

F  2 


68  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  I  have  seen  thee  many  times,  Hanifa,'  he  said, 
'  when  I  came  and  went  bringing  goods  for  thy  master. 
Wilt  thou  consent  to  my  seeing  the  silversmith  and 
having  a  talk  with  him  ?  ' 

Hanifa,  who,  according  to  the  custom  of  her  tribe, 
wore  no  veil  upon  her  face,  stared  in  surprise  at  the 
man,  in  whom  she  recognised  the  porter. 

'  Thy  eyes  are  bright  with  wonder.  Thou  dost  not 
yet  understand  of  what  I  am  speaking,'  said  Hamza. 
'  This  shows  that  the  One  who  is  All-merciful  has  guided 
my  steps  upon  the  right  path.' 

He  went  into  the  shop,  showed  the  silversmith 
his  bag  of  money,  and  asked  for  Hanifa  as  his  wife. 

'  May  it  be  done  to  thee  according  to  thy  wish,' 
replied  the  silversmith.  '  Her  mother  is  a  relation  of 
my  own,  and  lives  with  me  in  the  house ;  her  father 
is  dead.  And,  as  I  have  indeed  more  servants  than  I 
need,  all  I  ask  for  is  a  handful  of  money  out  of  thy 
bag.' 

'  Lay  hold  ! '  said  Hamza  encouragingly, '  and  may 
the  Almighty  guide  thy  hand  so  that  thou  mayest 
find  a  silver  piastre  or  so.  There  are  a  good  many  of 
them  lying  hidden  in  my  heap  of  copper  paras.' 

The  silversmith  put  his  hand  into  the  bag  and 
filled  it  with  money.  But  when  he  looked  at  it  he  did 
not  find  any  piastres. 

'  That 's  settled/  he  said  quietly,  as  he  laid  down 
the  copper  coins  beside  him.  '  This  evening  I  shall 
speak  to  Hanifa's  mother.' 

Hamza  thanked  him  for  his  promise,  and  went  out. 
He  found  Hanifa  still  standing  in  the  courtyard. 

'  I  am  going  now  to  buy  a  bit  of  ground,  where  we 
shall  build  our  home,'  said  Hamza  to  her. 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  69 

Then,  at  last,  she  understood,  and  blushed  over  all 
her  face. 

'  It  is  good  for  the  husband  when  the  wife  is  not  too 
quick  of  thought,'  said  Hamza  as  he  went  away. 
'  Praise  to  the  One,  the  Almighty  ! ' 

On  that  same  day  Hamza  bought  the  sand-hill — for 
the  possession  of  which  he  had  worked  for  all  these 
fifteen  years — and  in  a  few  weeks  he  had  a  clay-built 
hut  ready  for  himself  and  his  wife  to  live  in.  Without 
further  delay  they  took  possession  of  their  new  home. 

They  lived  happily  together,  but  they  had  no 
children.  Every  Friday  Hamza  prayed  for  this 
favour  of  Heaven,  in  the  great  mosque,  the  Djama  el 
Basha  ;  but  his  prayer  was  never  heard.  He  and  his 
wife  long  mourned  because  of  this  ;  but  when  the  ten 
date-palms,  that  Hamza  had  planted  by  his  clay-built 
hut,  grew  up,  and  not  only  gave  shade  but  also  bore 
fruit,  he  called  them  his  sons  and  daughters. 

'  It  is  the  will  of  Allah  that  I  should  care  for  them 
and  watch  over  them  as  if  they  were  my  own  children  ; 
perhaps  this  is  why  he  has  denied  me  any  others,' 
Hamza  often  declared  ;  and  he  would  add  :  '  Has  not 
the  Prophet  said,  "  The  noble  date-palm  belongs  to  the 
race  of  men.  Honour  it  like  the  sister  of  thy  own 
father  "  ?  ' 

To  every  word  her  husband  said,  his  wife  would 
silently  bow  her  assent.  For  so  wonderfully  had  God 
guided  Hamza's  ways,  that  his  wife  had  not  a  loose 
tongue  like  other  women,  but,  on  the  contrary,  was 
always  inclined  to  silence.  When  she  was  asked 
about  anything,  she  had  to  think  of  the  answer  for  a 
long  time.  So  she  passed  for  being  even  more  simple 
than  her  husband. 


70  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

As  the  palms  grew  up,  old  age  came  upon  Hamza. 
He  took  it  like  all  else  as  a  good  gift.  Had  not  the 
Prophet  said  that  an  old  man  best  prepares  himself 
for  Paradise  ?  And  Hanifa  grew  old  at  his  side. 

'  We  have  found  happiness/  Hamza  often  declared, 
and  Hanifa  bowed  her  assent. 

The  older  he  grew,  the  oftener  Hamza  would  repeat 
these  words.  Each  evening  he  knelt  with  his  face 
turned  to  the  east,  and  praised  and  thanked  with  all 
his  heart  the  One,  the  Almighty. 

His  neighbours  of  the  village — in  which  Hamza's 
clay  hut  stood  farthest  out  towards  the  road — were 
full  of  admiration  for  him.  If  he  had  not  been  so  silent, 
and  almost  shy  of  them,  they  would  have  regarded 
him  as  a  holy  man — perhaps,  even,  as  a  marabout. 
But  he  never  cried  out  his  prayers  in  a  loud  voice, 
never  appeared  in  rent  garments  ;  and,  when  he  made 
his  devotions,  he  avoided  the  public  places.  He  was 
even  as  simple  as  he  was  pious. 

So  Hamza  lived  blamelessly  for  many  years  in  his 
garden  behind  the  cactus-hedge,  which  protected  it 
from  the  coming  of  thieves  and  the  drift  of  the  desert 
sand.  He  tilled  his  vegetable  garden  and  cared  for 
the  date-palms  and  fig-trees  that  supplied  to  himself 
and  Hanifa  the  necessaries  of  life. 

That  for  which  he  had  striven  he  had  obtained,  and 
he  cherished  no  further  ambition. 

The  one  friend  who  used  to  visit  the  husband  and 
wife  in  their  village — a  little  more  than  half  a  mile  from 
the  city — was  the  policeman,  AH  Schekr.  He  told 
them  whatever  news  there  came  of  what  was  happen- 
ing in  the  outside  world,  and  they  listened  with  interest 
to  him.  When  he  had  eaten  a  few  dates  and  a  handful 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  71 

of  figs  and  smoked  his  cigarettes  he  rose,  wished  them 
good-bye,  and  went  away  again. 

'  A  strange  story  this ! '  exclaimed  Hamza  one  even- 
ing when  Ali  Schekr  had  departed  on  his  homeward 
way.  '  These  poor  infidels  that  pray  to  painted  images 
of  stone  and  wood  want  to  wage  war  against  the 
Padishah  !  Do  you  understand,  wife  ?  ' 

Hanifa  only  shook  her  head.  She  did  not  waste 
a  thought  on  a  matter  that  was  not  clear  to  her 
husband. 

'  Mere  bazaar  gossip ! '  said  Hamza  to  comfort 
himself,  and  then  gave  no  further  thought  to  what 
he  had  heard.  '  To-morrow  we  will  bend  the  pahn 
in  the  left-hand  corner  nearer  to  the  one  that  grows 
highest  on  the  slope.  Have  you  noticed,  Hanifa,  that 
it  is  turning  away  from  the  two  male  palms  that  grow 
nearest  to  it  ?  But  it  is  stretching  out  its  leaves 
longingly  to  that  strong  tree  over  there.  It  is  pining 
with  love  for  that  which  it  is  the  most  difficult  to 
reach.  So  it  is  my  business  to  bring  together  these 
two  that  such  a  relentless  space  keeps  apart.  Get 
the  long  fibre  rope  ready,  wife.'  And,  like  a  father 
speaking  to  his  children,  Hamza  whispered  affection- 
ately to  the  two  palms  :  '  To-morrow  !  .  .  .  to-morrow  ! 
.  .  . '  Then  he  went  into  the  hut,  saying :  '  One 
must  be  merciful  to  the  helpless  !  Is  it  not  written : 
"  Destroy  no  date-palm.  It  rewards  thee  richly  for 
every  good  action  of  thine  "  ?  ' 

Next  morning  Hamza  was  at  work  in  his  garden  ; 
and,  as  he  had  promised  the  evening  before,  he  bound 
the  two  outermost  trees  securely  together  with  Hanifa's 
fibre  rope,  and  bent  down  their  crests  one  on  the  other. 
Then  on  many  an  evening  he  sat  and  regarded  his  work. 


72  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

As  the  pollen  of  the  male  tree  fell  on  the  crest  of 
the  tree  below  it,  he  smiled,  stroked  his  beard,  and 
said : 

'  Shall  not  a  good  father  take  care  of  his  children  ?  ' 

Hanifa  sat  beside  her  husband  and  smiled  with 
him  ;  but,  according  to  her  custom,  said  nothing. 

Hamza  went  on  with  his  talk  :  *  Thou  art  a  good 
wife.  Right  well  art  thou  worth  the  handful  of  copper 
money  that  thy  mother's  cousin  took  from  my  purse — 
and  it  was  soon  filled  up  again.' 


The  summer  went  by  amid  various  occupations. 
Rumours  of  an  Italian  attack  on  Tripoli  were  continu- 
ally in  circulation,  and  the  neighbours  shouted  them 
to  Hamza  across  his  cactus-hedge.  But  he  would  wave 
them  aside  with  his  hand,  smile,  and  say  only : 

'  They  are  poorer  than  we  are.  Besides,  there  are 
only  a  few  of  them.' 

'  Their  land  lies  on  the  other  side  of  the  sea ;  and, 
over  there,  there  are  numberless  Italianos,'  answered 
his  neighbour. 

'  Why  should  they  attack  us  ?  '  asked  Hamza, 
getting  somewhat  contentious. 

'  They  are  stronger  than  we  are,  do  you  see — 
stronger  and  more  numerous.' 

'  That  is  no  reason,'  explained  Hamza.  '  The  law 
does  not  allow  a  stronger  man  to  strike  a  weaker.' 
And,  persuaded  of  the  truth  of  his  assertion,  he  added  : 
'  God  shows  not  the  way  to  the  unjust  man,' 


One  day  in  the  spring,  Ali  Schekr  arrived  in  greater 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  73 

haste  than  ever  before.  He  forgot  all  about  the 
basket  of  dates,  and  did  not  even  see  the  figs. 

'  Italianos !  '  he  gasped  out.  '  The  garrison  is 
marching  out  of  the  city.  The  soldiers  are  not  to 
halt  even  at  Ain  Zara  !  ' 

'  And  thou  ?  '  asked  Hamza  in  surprise. 

'  I  am  to  remain.  Just  now  there  is  good  need  of 
men  to  take  care  of  the  foreigner-residents.  What 
would  happen  if  we,  too,  went  away  ?  ' 

But  there  was  no  cheerfulness  in  AH  Schekr's 
speech,  and  he  took  a  gloomy  view  of  things. 

He  soon  went  back  to  the  city,  after  having  bade 
Hamza  a  friendly  farewell. 

'  Dost  thou  understand  this  ?  '  asked  Hamza,  when 
Ali  Schekr  was  gone. 

But  his  wife  only  shook  her  head.  In  the  night 
there  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  clay-built 
hut.  Hamza  opened  it,  and,  despite  the  darkness, 
could  see  a  Turkish  non-commissioned  officer.  Behind 
him  some  soldiers  were  in  sight ;  and,  farther  off,  a 
large  body  of  troops. 

'  Are  there  no  longer  any  Moslems  ?  '  asked  the 
sergeant  excitedly. 

'  Thou  speakest  foolishly  !  Are  we  not  all  children 
of  one  Father  ?  ' 

'  Here,  take  this  !  '  and  he  handed  a  rifle  to  Hamza, 
and  called  out  to  the  people  behind  him :  '  Cartridges  ! ' 

A  soldier  put  a  square  parcel  into  Hamza's  out- 
stretched hand. 

'  Are  there  no  longer  any  Moslems  ?  '  cried  out  the 
sergeant  again,  striking  his  breast  with  his  clenched 
fist.  '  Are  there  no  longer  any  Moslems  left  ?  ' 

'  In  the  name  of  God  ! '  said  Hamza,  and  handed 


74  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

the  parcel  of  cartridges  to  Hanifa  who  had  appeared 
at  the  door. 

'  When  the  signal  sounds  ! '  whispered  the  sergeant 
with  quivering  lips,  '  thou  hast  a  rifle,  thou  hast 
cartridges :  remember,  then,  that  thou  art  a  Moslem  ! ' 

'  Thou  needst  not  remind  me  of  that/  answered 
Hamza  in  a  friendly  tone. 

'  Farewell,  True  Believer  !  ' 

The  sergeant  hurried  off  quickly  along  the  road, 
followed  by  his  soldiers.  They  were  going  southwards, 
towards  the  desert.  Hamza  shook  his  head  as  he 
noticed  this.  And,  in  the  darkness,  rang  out  the  cry 
of  the  sergeant,  full  of  grief  and  scorn  : 

'  Are  there  no  longer  any  Moslems  left  ?  ' 

He  called  it  out  again  and  again.  His  grief  over 
this  retreat  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy  gave  enduring 
strength  to  his  voice,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  the 
cry  at  last  died  away  in  the  distance. 

Hamza  stared  out  into  the  night.  The  cry  made 
his  figure — bent  with  age — erect  again  for  a  while ; 
drove  the  blood  more  swiftly  through  his  veins,  and 
awoke  new  thoughts.  But,  then,  he  felt  how  his 
aged  toil-worn  hands  were  trembling. 

'  No,  no  ! '  he  murmured  in  a  low  voice. 

Like  an  echo  Hanifa  repeated  the  words  behind  him. 


At  last  the  morning  came,  and  Hamza  went  out  into 
his  garden.  He  had  hardly  taken  three  steps  when  he 
heard  some  one  calling  his  name. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  cactus-hedge  stood  Ibrahim, 
the  head  man  of  the  village,  an  Arab  of  some  forty 
years,  with  a  long  black  beard. 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  75 

'  Come  closer  ! '  said  Ibrahim,  beckoning,  and  as 
Hamza  complied,  he  whispered  eagerly  to  him  : 

'  Did  you,  too,  get  a  rifle  last  night  ?  Take  good 
care  of  it !  Keep  quiet !  I  shall  give  the  signal ! ' 

He  went  away  quickly,  and  Hamza  thought  he  saw 
a  revolver  sticking  out  of  his  girdle. 

All  day  long  Hamza  sat  in  his  garden  and  stared 
sadly  at  the  ground  before  him.  What  did  all  this 
mean  ?  What  was  going  to  happen  ?  His  tongue 
shaped  many  questions ;  but  he  found  no  answer  for 
them. 

As  on  this,  so  on  many  other  days,  he  sat  on  the 
same  spot,  and  each  evening  he  said  with  an  anxious 
shake  of  his  head  : 

'  I  can  make  nothing  of  it ! ' 

One  day  he  saw  some  Italian  soldiers  on  the  road. 
They  came  marching  in  quick  step  towards  the  desert, 
and  halted  by  the  last  of  the  garden  walls.  Plumes 
of  green  feathers  fluttered  on  their  pith  helmets,  and 
the  sun  glittered  on  their  bayonets  and  sword-sheaths. 
They  were  good  fellows,  and  many  of  them  nodded 
to  the  Arabs,  who,  curious  to  see  them,  put  their  heads 
out  of  the  house  doors. 

All  day  long  other  soldiers  came  and  went.  The 
first  party  had  camped  near  the  village.  Some  of  them 
lighted  fires,  others  pitched  tents,  but  most  of 
them  were  busy  digging  a  long  trench  in  the  sand,  or 
repairing  the  garden  walls  that  in  some  places  were  in 
ruin. 

Hamza,  sheltered  behind  his  cactus-hedge,  watched 
their  proceedings.  He  thought  it  was  friendly  of  them 
to  build  up  again  the  tumble-down  garden  walls.  And 
it  was  all  the  better,  because  just  here  the  oasis  formed 


76  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

only  a  narrow  stretch  of  fruitful  land  between  the 
desert  and  the  city. 

'  God  is  Great ! '  said  Hamza  piously.  '  The 
Italianos  are  doing  in  one  day  what  we  have  not  accom- 
plished in  many  years.' 

In  the  evening,  Moedebb,  the  twelve-year-old  son 
of  the  village  head  man,  came  to  him. 

'  To-morrow  afternoon  all  the  men  of  the  village 
are  to  assemble  outside  my  father's  house.' 

'  To-morrow  is  the  holy  day/  T  objected  Hamza. 

'  The  Italianos  have  ordered  it,  not  my  father.' 

'  Shall  I  bring  the  rifle  with  me  ?  ' 

The  boy  cast  a  look  of  contempt  on  Hamza,  and 
laid  a  finger  on  his  lips. 

'  Come  with  empty  hands  and  be  silent,'  he  said, 
and  strode  away  with  the  dignified  bearing  of  a  man. 

When,  on  the  Friday,  Hamza  arrived  at  the  ap- 
pointed place,  he  found  all  the  men  of  the  village 
already  assembled  there.  The  elders  sat  with  their  backs 
leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  head  man's  house.  The 
young  men  kept  together  at  the  south  side  of  the  open 
space.  On  each  of  the  other  sides  of  the  square  a 
company  of  Italian  soldiers  was  drawn  up,  with 
ordered  arms.  The  officers  stood  in  a  group  in  front  of 
them.  They,  as  well  as  the  soldiers,  were  in  good 
humour,  and  looked  with  a  mixture  of  contemptuous 
amusement  and  curiosity  at  the  elders  in  the  shadow 
of  the  wall  and  the  young  men  who  stood  out  in  the 
sunlight,  silent  and  serious.  Hamza  had  taken  his 
place  in  the  row  of  the  elder  men.  Nothing  was 
happening. 

1  Friday,  the  Mohammedan  Sabbath. 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  77 

After  a  while  there  was  a  thunder  of  horse-hoofs, 
and  a  party  of  mounted  officers  galloped  on  to  the 
market-place.  A  word  of  command  rang  out.  The 
ranks  of  soldiers  came  stiffly  to  attention  and  the  rifles 
flew  up  from  the  ground.  Then  came  some  ceremonies 
that  were  unintelligible  to  the  Arab  spectators.  At 
last  the  colonel  raised  his  voice  and  addressed  a  speech 
to  the  Arabs,  who  kept  perfectly  motionless  all  the 
time. 

An  interpreter — many  of  the  villagers  knew  him, 
for  he  was  a  slipper-maker  who  had  a  shop  in  one  of 
the  streets  of  the  city — came  forward,  as  soon  as  the 
colonel  had  got  to  the  end  of  his  first  paragraph, 
and  began  to  translate  the  speech. 

'  The  all  powerful  Lord  and  King  of  Italy,'  he 
interpreted — then  he  added  on  his  own  account,  '  God 
give  him  long  life  and  grant  success  to  his  under- 
takings ' — '  proclaims,  hereby,  Tripoli  to  be  an  Italian 
province  and  its  inhabitants  to  be  his  subjects,  pledged 
to  fidelity  to  their  new  ruler/ 

The  old  men  by  the  wall  bent  their  brows  lower 
towards  the  ground,  and  the  young  fellows  looked  to 
their  front  with  downcast  eyes,  till  the  boy  Moedebb 
slipped  unexpectedly  in  among  them,  and  whispered 
some  words  of  scorn.  Then  they  clenched  their  fists 
under  the  folds  of  their  burnous,  and  their  eyes  began 
to  sparkle. 

All  the  time  the  colonel  went  on  talking,  and  the 
slipper-maker  from  the  bazaar  translated  his  words. 

In  the  name  of  the  new  Government  he  promised 
a  kindly  and  gracious  rule  and  much  prosperity  to 
come.  The  inhabitants  were,  therefore,  on  their  part, 
to  show  goodwill  to  the  troops,  not  hinder  them  in 


78  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

their  work,  and,  above  all  things,  always  tell  them 
any  news  they  might  pick  up  as  to  the  proceedings  of 
the  Turks. 

These  blinded  people,  he  said,  instead  of  surrender- 
ing at  discretion,  had  taken  refuge  in  the  desert.  They 
had  no  prospect  of  anything  but  misery  and  suffering  ; 
but  they  had  chosen  their  own  way.  The  least  in- 
subordination would  be  severely  punished.  Did  they 
understand  him  ? 

No  one  answered,  and  the  interpreter  gave  a  great 
shrug  of  his  shoulders.  The  colonel  cast  a  searching 
look  at  the  row  of  elders,  glanced  rapidly  at  the  younger 
men,  and  then  ordered  the  head  man  of  the  village 
to  come  forward.  Then  he  made  the  interpreter  say 
to  him  : 

'  It  is  every  citizen's  duty  to  sacrifice  his  life  for 
his  country  and  his  faith.  Contempt  is  the  well- 
deserved  penalty  that  falls  upon  him  who  refuses 
this  duty.  Say  this  to  your  people.  If  they  have 
understood  my  words  they  will  all  know  what  they 
have  to  do.' 

'  Thou  speakest  wisely  and  justly,'  answered  the 
village  head  man,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  look  straight 
into  those  of  the  colonel.  '  It  is  the  duty  of  every 
True  Believer  to  die  for  his  faith  and  his  country. 
Thou  shalt  have  no  reason  to  visit  us  with  contempt.' 

The  slipper-maker  from  the  bazaar  shook  his 
head.  He  did  not  like  the  tone  in  which  the  village 
head  man  had  spoken.  But  the  colonel  and  the  officers 
around  him  were  smiling  cheerfully.  They  were  used 
to  the  reserved  bearing  of  the  Arabs,  and  they  did  not 
understand  their  language.  Besides,  they  were  in  a 
hurry.  There  were  several  other  villages  in  the  oasis, 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  79 

and  the  inhabitants  were  to  have  the  change  in  their 
allegiance  brought  to  their  knowledge  as  quickly  as 
possible. 

'  Then  I  consider  your  reply  as  an  oath  of  fidelity. 
See  to  it  that  no  one  dares  to  break  it.  That  will  be 
severely  punished.' 

This  said,  the  colonel  saluted  with  his  riding- 
whip,  and  once  more  his  glance  swept  over  the  groups 
of  silent  men.  Then  he  turned  his  horse  down  the  road 
and  galloped  southwards.  A  little  farther  on  he  was 
met  by  an  adjutant,  who  reported  some  suspicious 
movements  in  the  desert.  The  colonel  gave  an  angry 
shrug  of  his  shoulders.  He  must,  without  delay, 
explain  to  those  Arabs,  over  there,  whose  subjects 
exactly  they  now  were.  Then  there  was  such  an  endless 
amount  of  work  to  be  done  in  the  regiment,  and  to-day, 
when  he  just  happened  to  have  an  hour  free,  this  other 
business  must  come  in  between.  Surely  the  Arabs 
would  not  be  so  mad  as  to  ... 

Far  away  to  the  southwards  a  shot  rang  out.  The 
colonel  drove  the  spurs  into  the  sides  of  his  horse  and 
galloped  on.  If  the  Arabs  inside  the  lines  were  thinking 
of  anything  else  but  complete  submission,  so  much  the 
worse  for  themselves !  If  they  had  any  idea  of  treachery, 
he  was  not  the  man  to  wink  at  their  proceedings. 

The  companies  had  '  formed  fours-right/  and 
marched  out  of  the  market-place.  The  interpreter 
went  with  them,  keeping  step  with  the  men.  He  had 
an  idea  that,  out  there  in  the  desert,  though  ignorance 
and  fanaticism  were  in  command,  it  was,  after  all,  a 
safer  place.  He  took  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  row  of 
elders,  and  measured  the  village  head  man  from  head 
to  foot  with  a  searching  look.  The  Arab  returned 


80  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

the  look  with  contempt.  The  slipper-maker,  with  a 
curious  kind  of  smile  on  his  face,  was  now  asking  himself 
if  he  ought  not  to  communicate  his  suspicions  to  the 
officers.  No  ;  on  the  whole,  he  had  better  not.  For 
very  likely  they  would  think  that  he  did  not  properly 
understand  their  language,  and  had  not  correctly 
translated  the  colonel's  words.  And  then  they  would 
perhaps  take  something  off  the  pay  they  had  agreed 
to  give  him,  or  in  the  end,  refuse  it  to  him  entirely. 
Oh,  he  knew  these  Unbelievers  from  across  the  sea  !  One 
must  be  cunning  and  cautious  in  dealing  with  them. 
Once  more  he  looked  back,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  marched  on.  A  garden  wall  hid  the  row  of  silent 
old  men  from  his  view,  and  the  motionless  figure  of 
the  village  head  man  was  also  out  of  sight.  The 
slipper-maker  shook  his  head,  and  looked  at  the  officer 
at  the  head  of  the  column.  He  was  his  friend ;  but  when 
no  one  asked  him  any  question,  why  should  he  speak  ? 

There  was  the  crack  of  a  shot  far  off.  A  quiver 
ran  through  the  ranks  and  the  company  commander 
gave  the  order  '  Halt ! ' 

The  slipper-maker  turned  out  of  the  ranks,  gave  a 
humble  bow,  and  hurried  off  towards  the  city. 

When  the  two  companies  were  no  longer  in  sight, 
Ibrahim  spat  after  the  soldiers. 

'  You  have  all  heard  it.  He  who  will  not  stake  his 
life  for  his  faith  and  country  is  worthy  of  nothing  but 
contempt.' 

The  young  men  came  eagerly  forward  from  the  side 
of  the  square.  The  elders  stood  up. 

'  Who  are  we,  then,  that  the  Unbelievers  should  so 
dare  to  revile  us  ?  Rhalil,  dost  thou  hear  me  aright  ? 
These  foreign  dogs  fight  for  their  country  and  die 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  81 

for  their  faith.  Al  Said,  we  are  silent,  and  look  upon 
the  ground,  while  they  scorn  us  for  our  cowardice. 
Hamza,  are  we,  then,  no  longer  men  ?  Thou,  Sidi  ben 
Hassan,  have  we  the  hearts  of  women  in  our  breasts 
and  the  hands  of  children  on  our  arms  ?  Are  there  no 
more  Moslems  left  ?  ' 

A  gust  of  wind  brought  the  report  of  a  shot  to  the 
ears  of  the  men. 

'  God  is  Great,'  said  Ibrahim,  raising  his  hands 
towards  heaven.  '  Hasten  to  your  dwellings  !  When 
the  shots  fall  thickly  and  the  reports  ring  nearer,  let  us 
gather  behind  Rhalil's  garden  wall  and  on  the  sand-hill 
by  Hamza's  hut.  Thence  we  can  fire  into  the  shelter- 
trenches  of  those  unbelieving  dogs/  He  shook  his 
clenched  fist  in  the  direction  in  which  the  colonel  had 
ridden  away.  '  Thou  hast  said  it,  officer.  We,  too, 
can  die  for  our  faith  !  ' 

With  eyes  aflame,  the  men  separated  in  various 
directions.  Hamza  went  away  with  down-bent  head 
and  arms  hanging  listlessly  at  his  sides.  The  ardour 
of  the  rest  frightened  him. 

'  I  don't  understand  it,'  he  repeated  many  times. 
'  I  don't  understand  it.' 

Hanifa  met  him  at  the  door. 

'  If  you  don't  understand  it,  then  don't  think  of 
it,'  she  said. 

But  Hamza  only  shook  his  head. 

Some  shots  were  fired,  away  to  the  southwards. 
This  gave  him  something  else  to  think  of,  and  he 
listened  in  wonder  to  the  sharp,  abrupt  reports. 

The  short  twilight  came,  and  in  its  train  the  night 
followed  quickly  and  hid  the  village  and  the  palm- 
groves  in  its  dense  veil.  Far  off,  in  the  south,  flickered 


82  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

an  unbroken  line  of  sparks.  They  flashed  into  light 
and  vanished  in  the  same  instant,  blazed  out  anew 
and  again  disappeared.  Were  it  not  for  the  continual 
reports,  one  might  have  thought  of  some  freakish  game 
of  unruly  children. 

Hamza,  for  his  part,  stared  until  his  eyes  smarted. 

'  God  is  Great  !  '  he  murmured  continually,  full  of 
astonishment  at  the  spectacle. 

'  I  testify  that  there  is  but  one  God/  said  a  voice 
beside  him,  and  Hamza  recognised  Ibrahim. 

'  Is  it  the  time  ?  '  asked  the  old  man. 

'  Not  yet.'  The  other  laid  his  hand  heavily  on  the 
old  man's  shoulder.  '  Look  over  there  !  Just  now  there 
was  only  one  line  of  fire.  Now  there  are  two  of  them.' 

Hamza  strained  his  eyes  to  the  uttermost  and  could 
make  out  yet  another  line  of  sparks  that  flashed  out 
and  were  swallowed  up  in  the  darkness.  For  a  con- 
siderable distance  the  two  lines  ran  parallel  to  each 
other,  and  then  suddenly  broke  off.  But  nearer  the 
hill,  on  which  the  two  spectators  stood,  the  lines  were 
wider  apart.  There  the  fight  went  on  somewhat 
haltingly,  and  sometimes  the  firing  ceased  altogether 
for  many  minutes.  Then,  for  a  little  while,  the  rows 
of  sparks  flamed  out  again  ;  friends  and  foes  let  them- 
selves go  in  aimless  strife,  blazing  away  their  cartridges 
into  the  darkness,  until  there  was  once  more  a  brief 
silence.  Close  by  the  height  everything  was  perfectly 
quiet.  But  away  towards  the  wave-like  hills  that 
bounded  the  horizon  to  the  southwards,  the  din  was 
increasing.  The  struggle  was  growing  from  an  outpost 
engagement  into  a  regular  attack.  Cannon  suddenly 
joined  in,  and  a  rocket  lit  up  the  scene  over  a  wide 
stretch  of  ground. 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  83 

'  God  is  Great ! '  exclaimed  Hamza. 

'  I  testify  that  there  is  but  one  God  ! '  repeated 
the  village  head  man,  and  his  voice  quivered  as  if  with 
fear. 

The  two  men  remained  for  an  hour  upon  the  hill. 
Then  the  fighting  came  suddenly  to  an  end.  A  few 
scattered  shots  blazed  out.  A  cannon  thundered  for 
the  last  time.  Then  there  was  silence,  and  the  dark- 
ness, which  the  two  men  had  forgotten,  brooded  once 
more,  heavily  and  oppressively,  over  the  landscape. 

'  Sleep  if  thou  canst,  friend  Hamza/  advised  the 
head  man  ;  '  to-night  thou  wilt  not  find  it  so  easy.' 

'  When  is  it  ?  '  asked  Hamza  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

'  Perhaps  to-morrow  will  give  thee  the  answer. 
Farewell ! ' 

But,  then,  three  or  four  shots  rang  out  on  the  other 
side  of  the  cactus-hedge.  Hamza,  groping  for  some- 
thing to  catch  on  to,  found  Ibrahim's  hand  seeking 
his  own. 

Then  there  was  a  sound  of  hurrying  steps  ;  voices 
yelled  out  in  anger ;  then  came  another  shot  and  a  loud 
cry  of  pain,  that  died  away  in  a  gurgling  moan. 

'  That  was  Sidi  ben  Hassan,'  whispered  Ibrahim, 
his  voice  now  trembling  with  hate  and  the  longing  for 
revenge. 

From  the  road  below  there  came  the  confused 
outcry  of  a  dozen  voices.  Most  of  them  were  soon 
silent,  and,  at  last,  all  that  one  heard  was  the  single 
voice  of  some  one  excitedly  defending  himself  against 
some  accusation.  Then  one  word  suddenly  cut  short 
the  defence.  It  was  a  muttered  word  of  command, 
and  with  that  a  party  of  soldiers  marched  away  from 
the  place.  Ibrahim  listened,  and,  as  the  tramp  of 

G  2 


84  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

their  footsteps  died  away  in  the  distance,  he  slipped 
out  to  the  road  below. 

'  Sidi  ben  Hassan,  art  thou  here  ?  '  he  whispered. 

A  feeble  moaning  was  the  reply. 

Guided  by  this,  Ibrahim  groped  his  way  to  him. 

'  God  be  praised  !   thou  art  alive  ! ' 

'  I  came  out  of  my  house  and  was  going  along  the 
road,'  Sidi  ben  Hassan  explained  in  a  low  voice ; 
'  some  one  called  out  to  me,  but  I  did  not  answer.  I 
really  did  not  understand.  Then  he  fired  a  shot,  and 
at  once  several  other  guns  went  off.' 

'  Art  thou  wounded  ?  ' 

'  No ;  but  they  beat  me  down  with  rifle  butts.' 
Sidi  ben  Hassan  had  risen  and  leant  upon  Ibrahim. 
'  Their  voices  shook  with  fear,'  he  whispered  with 
spiteful  satisfaction  ;  '  they  were  quite  pale.' 

'  Praised  be  God !  '  Ibrahim's  voice  rang  out 
triumphantly.  '  They  have  felt,  even  as  we,  the 
numbing  terror  of  the  night.  They  listened  to  the 
hopeless  fight  of  their  comrades  against  the  Sons  of 
the  Prophet,  and  fear  has  distracted  their  minds.  This 
is  why  they  fired  and  struck  out  in  a  panic  of  their 
own.  God  has  them  in  his  hands  ! ' 

Hamza  stood  by  the  opening  in  the  cactus-hedge 
and  listened  to  the  talk  of  the  two  others.  His  soul 
was  full  of  wonder  at  the  events  of  the  night,  but  he 
felt  no  more  fear. 

'  I  could  not  understand  it,'  he  murmured  softly,  as 
he  heard  Ibrahim  going  away  with  the  man  who  had 
been  struck  down. 

Next  morning,  just  as  the  day  was  breaking,  a 
cannon-shot  woke  him — a  shot  fired  hardly  a  hundred 
paces  from  the  hut.  He  was  on  his  feet  in  a  moment, 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  85 

and  hurried  out.  Hanifa  cried  out  a  question  to  him, 
but  he  called  to  her  to  keep  quiet.  A  puzzling  noise 
quite  close  to  the  house  had  aroused  his  curiosity.  He 
had  heard  rightly.  It  was  the  noise  of  an  axe  at 
work.  Two  of  his  date-palms,  already  felled,  lay  on 
the  ground,  and  some  gunners  were  hard  at  it  on  two 
others,  that  trembled  under  their  strokes. 

'  It  is  written,  "  Destroy  no  date-palm,"  '  Hamza 
cried  out  as  he  rushed  towards  the  soldiers.  He  re- 
ceived a  heavy  blow  that  sent  him  staggering  aside. 
The  third  palm  fell,  and  Hamza  hid  his  face  in  his 
hands.  It  was  the  very  tree  that  last  spring  he  had 
linked  with  the  male  palm  on  the  slope  above  it. 

A  corporal,  who  was  directing  the  work,  called  out 
some  words  impatiently  to  a  man  who  stood  a  little 
way  off  looking  on  idly  with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth. 
He  was  in  civilian  attire,  but  he  had  a  soldier's  kepi 
on  his  head. 

The  man  thus  addressed  turned  to  Hamza  :  *  Hi ! 
old  man  ! '  he  said,  speaking  with  an  indistinct  pro- 
nunciation and  in  a  kind  of  Arabic  that  the  old  man 
could  hardly  understand.  '  Get  out  of  the  way  !  This 
is  war,  you  see  ! — war  .  .  .  war  ! '  He  clapped  his 
hands  together  and  nodded  as  if  to  confirm  his  state- 
ment. Then  he  spat  out  the  stump  of  his  cigarette 
and  lighted  another.  And,  turning  to  the  soldiers, 
he  went  on  in  Italian  :  '  Don't  worry  about  him.  He  's 
silly.  So  they  all  are,  and  every  one  of  them,  in 
this  country.  Take  my  word  for  it,  I  've  lived  long 
enough  here  to  know  the  Arabs.  Well,  now  you 
have  got  a  good  grip  of  them. — Can't  we  be  getting  on, 
corporal  ?  ' 

'  That  will  do,'  said  the  corporal,  pointing  to  the 


86  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

last  palm  that  had  been  felled.  '  We  don't  want  the 
others.  Leave  them  where  they  are.' 

Six  men  hoisted  on  to  their  shoulders  the  palm 
trunk  he  had  pointed  out,  and  carried  it  down  to  the 
road.  A  soldier  gathered  up  the  axes  and  went  after 
them.  He  laughed  mockingly  at  Hamza,  who  had 
thrown  himself  on  the  ground  in  speechless  despair. 
The  corporal,  who  was  in  a  bad  humour,  shook  his 
fist  at  the  old  man. 

'  Corpo  di  Bacco  ! '  exclaimed  the  man  with  the 
kepi,  giving  Hamza  a  friendly  push  with  his  foot.  '  I 
verily  believe  the  fellow  is  crying  .  .  .  and  all  for  a 
few  old  trees  ! '  And  then  he  went  on  in  his  unintelli- 
gible Arabic  :  '  We  have  war,  now  .  .  .  war  !  Later 
on,  all  will  come  right.' 

He  looked  after  the  soldiers,  who  had  already 
reached  the  road. 

'  Hast  thou  money  ?  '  he  whispered.  '  Eh  !  old 
man  !  .  .  .  piastre  .  .  .  para  .  .  .  money  ?  Out  with  it ! ' 

'  They  needed  only  one,  and  they  have  felled 
four  !  '  sobbed  Hamza. 

'  Four  ! — four  of  what  ?  Art  thou  thinking  of 
thy  trees  ?  What  matter  so  much  about  a  few  palms  ! 
Well,  they  need  not  have  felled  four  when  they  wanted 
only  one !  but,  then,  they  had  all  the  trouble  of  it.  What 
are  you  droning  about  ?  Per  Bacco,  give  me  a  few 
paras,  or  if  not  .  .  .'  He  stopped,  pushed  the  kepi 
back  from  his  forehead,  and  looked  angrily  at  an  Arab 
who  was  coming  across  the  garden.  '  So  thou  wilt 
not !  I'll  remember  it  against  thee,  old  fellow  !  We  have 
war  now,  seest  thou  ? — war  ! '  He  gave  a  shrill  whistle, 
turned  sharply  away  from  his  bargaining,  and  hurried 
after  the  soldiers. 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  87 

'  Dog  and  son  of  a  dog  ! '  spat  Ibrahim  after  him. 

All  the  while  Hamza  sat  motionless  with  his  head 
in  his  hands. 

Ibrahim's  eyes  wandered  from  tne  old  man  to  the 
palms  whose  crests  kissed  the  sand.  He  bit  his  teeth 
together,  and  walked  along  by  the  cactus-hedge  as  if  he 
were  looking  for  something.  He  smiled  grimly  as  he 
marked  its  height  and  thickness.  It  would  be  no 
protection  against  bullets ;  but,  for  all  that,  it  would 
be  a  serious  obstacle  to  a  rush. 

'  To-day  ! '  he  whispered  to  Hamza  before  going 
away. 

'  My  palms  ...  I  cannot  .  .  .'  stammered  the 
old  man.  When  he  looked  up,  Ibrahim  had  gone. 

After  the  cannon-shot  that  had  roused  Hamza  from 
his  sleep,  there  was  quiet  for  a  while.  Suddenly  the 
artillery  began  to  thunder  again.  The  guns  stood  half 
sunk  in  sand  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  half-way 
to  the  market-place.  Hamza  shook  his  head,  and  stood 
up.  There  was  a  sort  of  cloud  before  his  eyes.  He 
dragged  himself  with  tottering  steps  to  his  hut.  Mis- 
fortune had  come,  swift  and  crushing  :  his  palm- 
trees — his  children — must  die. 

Outside  the  noise  of  battle  rose  higher.  The  fight 
began  with  some  shots  from  an  outpost  that  withdrew 
quickly  through  the  sand.  And  then  at  once  the 
rifle-firing  broke  out  along  the  whole  line. 

From  his  house  Hamza  could  hear  the  increasing 
din  of  conflict.  The  cannon  were  fired  at  regular  inter- 
vals ;  but  there  was  an  unceasing  rattle  of  musketry. 
After  the  firing  had  lasted  for  some  time  his  ears  had 
become  used  to  it.  His  terror  at  the  roaring  storm  grew 
less,  and  instead  of  it  came  curiosity.  It  took  violent 


88  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

possession  of  him.  He  must  see  what  was  happening 
outside.  He  made  a  movement  to  rise,  but  Hanifa, 
who  was  cowering  beside  him,  drew  him  back  again. 

'  It  is  all  in  God's  hands/  said  Hamza  devoutly. 
As  he  met  the  questioning  look  in  his  wife's  eyes,  he 
saw  that  she  had  not  heard  his  words,  and  he  repeated 
them,  raising  his  voice. 

Again  he  listened  to  the  sounds  outside.  Now  he 
heard  a  double  rattle  of  musketry — near  at  hand, 
a  fierce  uninterrupted  fire ;  and,  farther  off,  an  angry 
challenge.  Hamza  nodded  his  head.  The  True 
Believers  were  over  there,  attacking  the  foreigners, 
and  .  .  . 

'  Come  ! '  cried  a  voice,  and  the  doorway  was  for  a 
moment  darkened. 

Hamza  tried  to  rise,  but  Hanifa  caught  him  by  the 
arm  and  stopped  him.  He  sank  on  the  ground  again. 
His  heart  beat  fast,  and  his  breath  came  short  and 
quick.  He  felt  a  strange  impulse  to  cry  out  and  strike 
his  breast. 

'  The  rifle  ! '  he  gasped,  and  crept  towards  the  grass 
mat  under  which  it  was  hidden. 

Hanifa  was  at  his  side  in  a  moment,  and  took 
it  from  him. 

'  Am  I  not  a  man  ? '  asked  Hamza,  in  a  tone  intended 
to  show  how  angry  he  was  at  her  assertion  of  authority. 

'  Old  man,'  answered  Hanifa,  and  went  on  to  say 
something  he  could  not  understand,  when,  suddenly, 
a  dozen  shots  crashed  out  close  to  the  hut. 

Hamza  listened  breathlessly.  The  noise  of  the  fight 
— which  so  far,  notwithstanding  the  cannon-shots  and 
the  rifle  volleys,  had  seemed  something  monotonous, 
exciting  and  depressing  at  the  same  time — now  all 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  89 

at  once  became  a  call,  a  command.  Something 
all  important,  something  in  which  he  must  bear 
a  part,  was  going  on  upon  the  other  side  of  the  clay 
wall. 

1  My  palms  !  '  he  cried,  and  snatched  the  rifle.  He 
knew  it  now — he  must  avenge  the  death  of  the  date- 
trees. 

But  Hanifa  was  quicker  than  her  husband.  With 
one  hand  she  held  him  back  as  he  struggled  to  go  out ; 
with  the  other  she  tore  her  hair. 

'  Old  man  !  .  .  .  old  man  !  '  came  quickly  from  her 
lips. 

The  shots  near  the  hut  rang  out  in  quicker  succes- 
sion ;  but  at  the  same  time  the  roar  of  the  outer 
circle  of  fire  rose  still  higher.  The  cannon  thundered 
unceasingly,  and,  like  a  setting  for  the  whole,  the 
rattle  of  rifle-fire  crackled  in  a  din  that  ever  rose  louder 
and  spread  wider.  Hamza  felt  the  blood  boiling 
through  his  veins,  and  his  limbs  filled  with  the  strength 
of  youth.  He  had  never  been  as  strong  as  now.  He 
rose  up  calmly,  pushed  his  wife  aside,  and  went  to  the 
door.  But,  then,  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  rifle  was 
no  good  without  the  cartridges,  and  he  called  out 
to  Hanifa  to  bring  them  to  him.  She  gave  a  quiet 
satisfied  smile — it  was  better  to  know  what  one  meant 
to  do. 

Then  something  new  and  unexpected  happened. 

A  cry  of  pain,  rage,  vengeance,  and  hate  burst  out 
on  all  sides.  There  were  hundreds  of  yelling  voices, 
hundreds  of  hearts,  that  in  this  cry  sought  to  give  vent 
to  their  feelings.  Like  a  wave  of  terror  it  all  at  once 
swept  over  the  hut.  There  was  a  rush  of  trampling 
feet,  and  some  shots  fell  around. 


90  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Rifle  in  hand,  Hamza  came  forth  from  his  dwelling. 

'  My  date-trees  !  '  he  said,  through  his  set  teeth. 

The  first  man  he  saw  was  his  neighbour,  Rhalil. 
He  was  lying  full  length  on  the  ground,  without  stirring. 
Hamza  raised  his  eyes  from  the  corpse,  and  stared  with 
open  mouth.  There  was  Sidi  ben  Hassan  tumbling 
down  in  a  heap.  Another — an  older  man — fell  beside 
him.  Was  it  not  El  Bidi  whom  they  called '  the  Miser '  ? 
He  crawled  on  hands  and  knees,  stood  up,  fell  down 
again,  and  crawled  on  with  a  look  of  indescribable 
anguish  lighting  up  his  eyes.  And  there  lay  Abu  Afr 
who  was  married  only  a  month  ago.  What  would 
his  young  wife  say  to  that  ? 

Hamza  could  not  think  out  his  thoughts  to  the  end. 
A  whole  series  of  various  events  were  happening  in 
swift  succession.  A  bullet  whistled  by  his  cheek  and 
buried  itself  with  a  dull  thud  in  the  wall  behind  him. 
Plumes  of  feathers  were  fluttering  on  the  other  side 
of  the  cactus-hedge,  and  the  white  sun-helmets  of  the 
Italians  ducked  down  behind  its  pulpy  leaves.  Shots 
went  off.  There  was  a  mingled  din  of  hurrahs  and 
curses.  A  man  came  running  by  that  Hamza  thought 
he  recognised,  without,  all  the  same,  being  able  to 
remember  who  he  was.  The  other  shouted  something, 
pointed  with  his  brown  fist  towards  the  market-place, 
and  then  was  gone  again.  Old  El  Bibi  fell  for  the 
fourth  or  fifth  time,  gave  a  loud  moan,  and  then  lay 
still. 

Panting  and  wild  with  rage  the  Italians  rushed  the 
garden  from  two  sides.  Through  the  gate  on  the 
road  a  body  of  bersaglieri  pushed  in,  and  grey-clad 
linesmen  dashed  up  from  the  desert  side.  All  were 
beside  themselves.  Their  eyes  were  aflame,  their  lips 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  91 

were  twitching,  and  their  tongues  uttered  menacing 
outcries  that  came  in  broken  accents  from  their 
parched  throats.  Hither  and  thither  they  rushed. 
The  garden  was  for  a  while  the  arena  of  a  mad  con- 
fused melee. 

A  soldier  ran  his  bayonet  into  the  dead  body  of 
Abu  Afr,  and  cried  out  ceaselessly  : 

'  Treachery  !  treachery  !  ' 

Another  fired  after  the  man  who  had  just  rushed 
past  Hamza.  Another  assailed  with  curses  and  blows 
of  his  rifle-butt  the  stem  of  a  palm ;  his  eyes  stared 
wildly  without  seeing,  and  his  mouth  howled  out  unin- 
telligible words.  Everywhere  insane,  unaccountable 
things  were  being  done. 

But,  gradually,  some  appearance  of  order  began  to 
show  itself  amid  the  tumult.  Some  reasoning  mind 
was  uniting  the  over-excited  brains  in  a  common 
purpose.  The  soldier,  who  kept  on  mishandling  the 
dead  Abu  Afr,  and  shouting  '  Treachery  ! '  had  hit  upon 
the  required  word. 

'  Treachery  !  '  they  bellowed,  foaming  with  rage. 
'  Treachery  !  '  howled  they  all,  without  exception. 

Two  soldiers  came  from  a  corner,  bringing  the 
wounded  village  head  man  between  them.  He  was 
pushed  against  the  clay  wall  of  the  hut,  some  shots 
rang  out,  and  he  fell  in  a  heap. 

'  Treachery  !  treachery  ! '  cried  those  that  shot  him, 
and  there  was  the  ringing  tone  of  self-satisfied  triumph 
in  their  voices.  They  had  not  merely  done  a  necessary 
work,  but  taken  part  in  a  just  act  of  punishment. 
They  rose  in  their  own  esteem. 

All  the  while  Hamza  was  standing  still  on  the  same 
spot.  He  had  received  no  hurt  in  the  mad  melee,  and 


92  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

he  was  now  staring  in  surprise  at  the  dead  man  lying 
pierced  with  bullets  by  the  clay-built  hut.  Yes,  it 
was  Ibrahim,  who  had  rushed  past  him,  and  whom  in 
his  confused  mind  he  had  failed  to  recognise.  Then  he 
bowed  his  head  and  listened.  The  rifle-fire  over  yonder 
in  the  desert  had  ceased  ;  no  more  shots  came  from  the 
Italian  lines.  The  battle  had  ended.  The  attack  on  the 
rear  had  come  too  soon  and  had  therefore  miscarried. 
Of  this,  however,  Hamza  understood  nothing.  He  felt 
only  that  the  yelling  voices,  the  wild  gesticulations, 
the  faces  distorted  with  hate  round  about  him,  made 
up  as  a  whole  something  far  more  terrible  than  the 
mighty  thunder  of  the  cannon  and  the  ceaseless  rattle 
of  the  rifle- fire  could  mean. 

'  Here  is  yet  another  of  the  dogs  ! '  was  shouted 
near  him. 

'  He  fired  at  us  from  his  pig-stye  of  a  house/  cried 
another. 

'  Hang  the  fellow  ! ' 

'  Give  me  a  cartridge  !    Mine  are  all  gone  ! ' 

Half  a  dozen  soldiers  gathered  about  Hamza.  Two 
fists  fell  heavily  on  his  shoulders,  one  sending  him 
staggering  to  the  left,  the  other  to  the  right.  From 
all  sides  men,  afire  with  rage,  came  running. 

A  young  officer  forced  his  way  through  them.  His 
eyes  glowed  in  his  pale  white  face.  Instead  of  the 
mortal  terror  that  his  looks  had  expressed  just  before, 
there  now  blazed  in  them  an  insatiable  thirst  for 
vengeance. 

'  Order,  comrades  !  Before  all  things,  order  ! '  he 
shouted.  '  We  must,  anyhow,  not  get  ourselves  blamed 
for  a  ...  for  a  ...'  his  teeth  mumbled  the  word  again, 
without  his  being  able  to  find  the  next.  Then  he 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  93 

broke  into  an  hysteric  laugh  that  distorted  his  well- 
formed  features.  '  Has  anyone  seen  the  old  fellow 
firing  a  shot  ?  '  he  asked,  when,  with  a  violent  effort,  he 
had  controlled  this  spasmodic  attack. 

'  Here  is  a  Turkish  rifle  lying  by  his  feet.'  The 
soldier  as  he  gave  the  answer  kicked  the  weapon  aside 
excitedly. 

'  Then  the  case  is  clear.  He  must  .  .  .  must  .  .  .' 
Again  the  young  man  was  mumbling  the  words  in  his 
teeth,  until  the  attack  broke  out  again  in  a  paroxysm 
of  laughter.  Helpless  with  rage,  the  officer  pointed 
to  the  wall. 

'  God  is  Great ! '  murmured  Hamza,  and  looked 
back  at  the  door  of  the  hut,  into  which  just  then  some 
soldiers  were  forcing  their  way. 

From  the  garden  of  his  neighbour,  Rhalil,  there 
came  the  repeated  piercing  shrieks  of  a  woman.  Some 
shots  rang  out,  and  the  shrieks  died  away  in  a  feeble 
lamentation. 

Shots  were  going  off  all  around.  But  it  was  no 
ordinary  shooting.  There  was  something  in  it  of 
uncontrolled  passion,  that  made  one  think  of 
exasperated  panic.  One  felt  it  in  the  way  hi  which 
one  shot  would  send  off  a  lot  more  after  it :  in  the 
sudden  inexplicable  silences,  that  came  from  time  to 
time,  only  to  give  place  at  once  to  a  still  more 
awful  outburst  of  sound. 

Some  cannon  rumbled  along  the  road  that,  as  it 
passed  the  village,  was  a  hard  stone-paved  highway. 
Then  came  a  stretch  of  loose  sand.  The  deafening 
clatter  of  the  wheels'ceased  suddenly  and  was  smothered 
into  a  sharp  crunching  sound,  punctuated  with  the 
cries  of  the  artillery-drivers  urging  their  horses  on, 


94  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

and  now  and  then  the  whistling  crack  of  a  whip.  Far 
off  beyond  some  shots  again  gave  a  menacing  challenge, 
and  others  answered  them  from  the  gardens  of  the 
village.  Horse-hoofs  thundered  on  the  road,  and, 
through  the  opening  in  the  cactus-hedge,  Hamza  saw 
a  group  of  officers  gallop  past. 

Hamza  was  hustled  up  against  the  wall  of  his  house. 
A  soldier  struck  him  on  the  head  with  his  fist ;  another 
spat  in  his  face. 

'  Traitor  !   Dog  ! ' 

Old  Hamza  fell  backwards  on  the  threshold,  and 
rolled  over,  but  was  again  set  upon  his  feet. 

'  Look  here  !  she  has  a  lot  of  cartridges  hidden  in 
her  clothes  !  It 's  abominable  ! ' 

And  Hanifa  was  violently  pushed  out  beside  her 
husband.  She  fell  at  his  side,  huddled  in  a  heap,  and 
closed  her  eyes.  She  still  held  in  her  hand  a  package 
of  cartridges. 

'  Get  back  ! '  cried  the  officer  with  the  hysteric  fits 
of  laughter.  '  Don't  forget  yourselves  !  Justice  and 
order,  comrades  !  Traitors  must  be  punished,  but  the 
innocent  ...  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Damn  it !  ...  Out  of 
the  way,  there  !  Second  section  ! — attention  !  Ha, 
ha,  ha  ! ' 

Bersaglieri  and  linesmen  pushed  up  to  each  other 
and  put  themselves  into  a  crooked  irregular  line.  But 
angry  feeling  got  the  upper  hand,  and  they  could  no 
longer  keep  any  disciplined  order.  A  man  fired  without 
aiming,  and  the  bullet  bored  itself  into  the  wall.  Other 
shots  rang  out,  one  by  one,  and  then  came  the  crack 
of  the  volley  before  a  command  could  be  heard. 

Hamza  had  bent  down  to  arrange  the  robe  of  Hanifa 
as  she  lay  huddled  on  the  ground.  As  the  soldiers 


HAMZA  AND  HANIFA  95 

dragged  her  out  of  the  hut,  her  robe  had  unfastened 
on  her  shoulder,  and  the  brown  skin  of  the  old  woman 
showed  through  the  gap.  It  hurt  his  feelings  to  think 
that  the  glance  of  these  foreign  Unbelievers  should  fall 
upon  the  body  of  an  Arab  woman.  As  he  did  it,  he 
smiled  at  the  soldiers  with  a  mixture  of  pity  and 
contempt.  They  meant  to  send  him  the  same  way  as 
Ibrahim — well,  he  was  ready.  But  why  old  Hanifa 
also  ?  .  .  .  This  surprised  and  saddened  him.  The 
cartridges  in  her  hands  .  .  .  why,  she  had  only  obeyed 
her  husband,  as  every  good  wife  does  and  should  do. 

As  he  saw  the  rifles  levelled  at  him,  some  of  them 
carrying  bayonets  on  their  barrels,  and  swaying  like 
reeds  hi  the  wind,  he  dropped  his  arms  by  his  sides, 
as  the  rule  of  the  Malachite  sect  ordains,  raised  his 
eyes  to  heaven,  and  cried  aloud  : 

'  God  is  Great ! ' 

The  rifles  spat  fire  and  bullets.  There  was  a  clatter 
on  the  clay  wall.  Old  Hanifa  shrieked  aloud  ;  then 
was  at  once  still  and  lay  without  a  movement.  Hamza 
had  closed  his  eyes  as  if  dazzled,  but  he  at  once  opened 
them  again.  His  breast  seemed  on  fire.  They  had 
poured  half-molten  lead  into  him.  His  legs  would  not 
support  him  any  longer.  Then  came  night,  cool  and 
compassionate,  after  an  agonising  day.  For  the  last 
time  Hamza  opened  his  eyes.  He  saw  the  palms — his 
children ;  the  torn  hedge,  and  .  .  .  and  ...  ah  !  too, 
he  saw  Hanifa,  who  had  for  so  many  years  stood 
faithfully  by  his  side.  She  had  always  been  a  good 
wife  to  him  .  .  .  yes,  good.  ...  He  moved  his  head, 
and  laid  it  on  her  shoulder.  She  had  already  gone  to 
rest,  and  was  sleeping  so  soundly  .  .  .  Yes,  indeed,  it 
was  night  now  ...  the  night. 


96  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

A  loud  laugh  close  by  gave  Hamza's  thoughts 
another  direction.  Amongst  the  soldiers  stood  a  man 
in  civilian  dress  with  a  kepi  cocked  over  one  ear.  He 
had  slipped  his  first  finger  through  the  trigger-guard 
of  a  revolver,  which  he  swung  from  side  to  side. 

'  Where  have  I  seen  him  before  ?  '  thought  Hamza. 
But  he  felt  too  weary  to  seek  for  an  answer ;  besides, 
it  was  now  time  to  sleep.  His  eyelids  dropped,  a 
quiver  ran  through  his  body,  and  Hamza  forgot  all 
pain  and  anxiety  in  the  stillness  and  rest  that  finally 
were  come  to  him.  With  a  last  grateful  sigh  he 
whispered : 

'  God  is  Great ! ' 

Across  his  body,  the  hysterical  officer  called  out  a 
question  to  the  interpreter,  who  had  returned  again 
at  so  apt  a  time  : 

'  What  does  he  say  ?  '  the  other  repeated  the 
question.  '  Some  nonsense,  naturally.'  Then  he 
translated,  with  an  idiotic  laugh,  '  God  is  great !  Ha, 
ha,  ha  ! ' 


Ill 

THE  VICTOR'S  MEED 

LIEUTENANT  NINO  RIVARATO  turned  from  the  Corso 
into  one  of  the  small  side  streets.  The  big  plume  of 
cock's  feathers  in  his  bersagliere  hat  fluttered  in  disorder 
in  the  brisk  breeze.  But  though  Lieutenant  Nino  at 
other  times  paid  a  very  precise  attention  to  his  appear- 
ance, to-day  he  gave  no  thought  to  it.  But,  then,  there 
was  no  need  to  trouble  about  it.  His  uniform  fitted 
closely  without  the  slightest  crease  upon  his  well-built 
figure,  his  sword-sheath  beat  in  measured  time  against 
his  left  leg,  and  his  short  but  quick  steps  showed 
a  light-hearted,  dashing  haste  that  well  befitted  a 
bersagliere. 

As  soon  as  he  turned  the  corner,  Lieutenant  Nino 
directed  his  glance  to  a  balcony  a  little  farther  down 
the  street.  There  was  no  one  to  be  seen  there,  and  a 
light  touch  of  red  coloured  the  cheeks  of  the  lieutenant 
as  he  became  aware  of  this.  In  the  next  second  the 
blush  gave  way  to  a  well-contented  look.  It  was  quite 
natural  that  a  young  lady  with  the  distinguished 
education  that  the  Signorina  Carmela  had  enjoyed 
should  not  be  running  out  on  a  balcony  like  an 

97  H 


98  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

empty-headed  schoolgirl,  even  though  she  knew  that 
her  faithful  admirer  would  to-day  be  paying  his 
respects  to  the  Tallandini  family. 

With  a  haste-that  became  greater  the  nearer  he  was 
to  his  object,  Lieutenant  Nino  swung  up  to  the  door 
of  the  house,  took  the  steps  in  a  couple  of  long  bounds, 
and  rushed  breathlessly  into  the  dwelling. 
'  War  is  declared  ! ' 

Signer  Tallandini  threw  down  his  napkin  and  rose 
from  the  breakfast-table  ;  the  Signora  uttered  a  sharp 
'  Dio  mio  '  ;  and  Signorina  Carmela  kept  looking  down 
into  her  coffee-cup,  after  first  casting  a  kindly  glance 
at  the  lieutenant — the  glance  he  had  expected  in  his 
confidence  of  victory. 

When  the  excitement  over  the  unexpected  an- 
nouncement had  somewhat  subsided,  Lieutenant 
Nino  shook  hands  with  the  father  and  mother  and 
came  close  to  Signorina  Carmela.  An  endless  sad- 
ness came  over  the  young  lieutenant,  and  his  eyes 
were  moist,  against  his  will.  Was  it  not  for  his  sake 
that  the  charming  Carmela  could  hardly  conceal  her 
anxious  emotion — so,  she  loved  him  ?  He  bent  down 
and  reverently  kissed  the  little  warm  hand  that  he 
felt  trembling  in  his  own. 

Behind  the  backs  of  the  young  people  Signor 
Tallandini  nodded  to  his  wife.  With  another  '  Dio 
mio '  that  had  a  sound  of  inexpressible  helplessness, 
she  went  up  to  her  husband.  Signor  Tallandini  had 
already  opened  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  and  he 
signed  to  his  wife  to  go  in  there.  She  raised  up 
her  hands  in  perplexity,  whispered  once  more  her 
inevitable  '  Dio  mio,'  and  glided  out. 

The  signor  followed  her  as  noiselessly  as  his  stout- 


99 

ness  would  permit,  and,  after  a  kindly  look  behind 
him  that  was  full  of  meaning,  shut  the  door.  The 
lovers  were  alone. 

Lieutenant  Nino  knew  exactly  what  he  wanted  to 
say  to  his  adored  Carmela — he  had  so  often  rehearsed 
it  to  himself.  But  just  now  the  words  would  not  come 
to  his  tongue.  He  stammered  out  something  that 
was  unintelligible  and  absurd,  and  blushed  at  his 
own  clumsiness.  Then  Signorina  Carmela  came  to  his 
aid. 

'  Is  it  war  ?  '  she  asked  with  a  gasp. 

Lieutenant  Nino  was  once  more  master  of  the 
situation. 

'  Those  wretched  Turks  ! '  he  said,  straightening 
himself  up.  '  The  whole  thing  is  a  mere  excursion  of 
no  real  importance.  It  is  thought  that  we  shall  have 
to  fire  hardly  ten  shots.' 

Signorina  Carmela  sighed.  With  such  great 
confidence  it  was  becoming  an  easier  matter  for  her. 
The  colour  came  back  to  her  cheeks  and  her  lips 
smiled. 

Then  Lieutenant  Nino  bent  down  and  kissed  once 
more  the  hand  that  still  lay  in  his  own. 

'  My  Carmela  ! '  he  whispered. 

She  looked  beyond  him  and  said,  as  if  speaking 
to  vacancy  : 

'  If  only  the  war  had  not  come  ! ' 

'  In  that  case,  I  should  probably  not  have  taken 
courage  to  say  it  to  you  for  a  long  time/ 

At  that  very  moment  it  occurred  to  him  that,  so 
far,  nothing  essential  had  been  said.  He  blinked  his 
eyelids  thoughtfully,  and  asked  himself  what  was  the 
most  becoming  way  to  begin.  And  once  more 

H  2 


ioo  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Signorina  Carmela  freed  him  from  all  embarrass- 
ment. She  stretched  out  her  other  hand  to  him, 
and  he  hastened  to  grasp  it. 

For  a  few  seconds  the  two  young  people  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes,  in  trembling  suspense.  What  they 
had  so  long  hoped  for,  and  vaguely  anticipated,  was 
now  reality.  Signorina  Carmela,  overcome  by  her 
feelings,  gave  a  little  stagger,  and  Lieutenant  Nino 
slipped  his  arm  round  her  waist.  Their  lips  were 
irresistibly  drawn  together  and  met  in  a  kiss.  The 
bersagliere  hat,  which  became  him  so  well,  and  which  in 
sheer  haste  the  lieutenant  had  to-day  quite  forgotten 
to  take  off,  was  in  the  way,  so  Signorina  Carmela  had 
to  bend  her  head  a  little  aside.  But  this  made  her 
all  the  more  charming,  and  his  mouth  went  eagerly 
to  hers  like  a  falcon  to  its  prey.  They  were  stand- 
ing there  silent,  breathless,  and  happy,  when  a  discreet 
cough  brought  them  back  to  the  present. 

Signor  Tallandini  had  stolen  noiselessly  into  the 
room.  He  nodded  pleasantly,  and  with  a  look  of 
intelligence  to  the  young  pair  ;  and  behind  him  the 
Signora  murmured  a  suppressed  '  Dio  mio.  ' 

'  I  shall  talk  to  your  parents,  Nino/  he  said,  and 
clapped  his  future  son-in-law  on  the  shoulder.  '  Now, 
let  us  first  finish  our  breakfast.' 

It  was  a  lively,  merry  breakfast :  that  is  to  say, 
Signor  Tallandini  did  the  talking  for  himself  and  the 
others,  and  took  care  to  do  it  thoroughly.  At  first, 
with  the  consideration  for  the  opposing  side  that  is  a 
part  of  good  manners,  he  spoke  a  little  about  the  poor 
Turks,  who  managed  their  business  so  miserably 
badly.  It  would  be,  therefore,  a  benefit  to  them  as  well 
as  to  humanity  in  general,  if  Tripoli  were  annexed — 


THE  VICTOR'S  MEED  101 

yes,  simply  annexed.  Then  he  began  to  roll  out  a 
long  circumstantial  discourse  on  something  which  he 
described  as  the  '  political  tangle  ' ;  passing  from  this  to 
the  much  talked-of  Gordian  knot  that  could  not  be 
untied,  but  only  cut  asunder  with  the  sword. 

Lieutenant  Nino  spurred  him  on  to  ever-increasing 
eloquence,  putting  hi  here  and  there  an  occasional 
'  Certainly '  or  '  Naturally.'  He  was  exceedingly 
grateful  for  being  allowed,  at  this  small  cost,  to  keep 
his  eyes  fixed  in  undisturbed  peace  on  Signorina 
Carmela's  pure  features. 

By  means  of  an  historical  excursus,  which  included 
little  of  precise  fact  and  was  therefore  all  the  longer, 
Signer  Tallandini  at  last  got  to  the  duty  of  a  civilised 
people  towards  nations  in  a  lower  stage  of  develop- 
ment. He  would  not  exactly  maintain  that  these 
backward  peoples  ought  to  be  exterminated  from  the 
earth ;  on  the  contrary  ,  .  .  but  .  .  .  well,  they 
understood  what  he  meant.  ...  If  he  had  been  quite 
candid,  he  would  have  had  to  confess  that  he  himself 
did  not  understand. 

'  Naturally  ! '  Lieutenant  Nino  put  in,  and  pressed 
the  hand  of  his  adored  one  under  the  table. 

Signer  Tallandini  at  once  began  upon  the  '  outlook 
for  the  future  of  civilisation,'  and  quoted,  word  for 
word,  a  couple  of  long  extracts  from  the  clerical  news- 
paper that  formed  his  daily  reading.  The  signora 
gazed  with  admiration  on  her  husband,  and  the 
two  young  people  looked  deep  into  each  other's 
eyes. 

Breakfast  ended  with  everyone  hi  the  best  of  spirits. 
But,  as  the  chairs  were  pushed  away  from  th  ••  table, 
Lieutenant  Nino  came  tumbling  back  with  a  plunge 


102  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

into  dull  reality.  Yes,  it  was  the  fact  that  his  depar- 
ture was  fixed  for  that  very  afternoon.  The  regiment 
was  mobilised.  The  officers  had  that  morning  received 
their  orders  for  service.  Under  these  circumstances, 
he  must  himself  say  that  the  formal  publication  of 
the  engagement  must  be  thought  of  only  as  soon  as 
the  war  was  over.  But,  as  his  beloved  Carmela  had 
given  him  her  consent,  he  looked  with  a  contented  and 
joyful  heart  to  the  future  which  promised  so  much 
happiness. 

Signor  Tallandini  had  wine  brought  into  the 
inner  salon,  and  filled  the  glasses.  Then  he  invited 
those  present  to  come  close  around  him  ;  he  wished  to 
propose  a  toast.  '  Unfortunately,  he  was  no  orator, 
however  the  twofold  significance  of  the  day  .  .  . 
Well,  they  quite  understood  him.  Therefore,  To 
the  welfare  of  their  native  land  ! '  They  drank  in 
silence.  Lieutenant  Nino  stood  at  attention  as  if  on 
parade,  and  Signorina  Carmela  unconsciously  imitated 
him.  Then  a  glass  to  the  health  of  their  beloved 
children,  who  .  .  .  who  ...  his  feelings  overcame 
him.  He  brought  out  only  some  stammering  words. 
The  signora  was  already  in  tears. 

When  Lieutenant  Nino  went  home  an  hour  later, 
he  was  a  happy  man.  His  eyes  beamed,  his  lips  smiled, 
and  the  cock's  plume  fluttered  in  the  wind.  All  the 
streets  were  astir  with  excitement.  At  every  corner  the 
extra  editions  of  the  papers  were  posted  up,  and  the 
newsvendors  were  shouting  louder  than  ever  before. 
As  he  reached  the  Corso,  Lieutenant  Nino  looked  back. 
His  Carmela  was  standing  with  her  parents  on  the 
balcony,  and  waved  a  farewell  greeting  to  him.  The 
lieutenant  gave  a  stately  salute  and  smiled  all  over 


THE  VICTOR'S  MEED  103 

his  face.  Handsome,  high-spirited,  courageous,  young 
and  happy,  he  turned  the  corner  and  was  out  of  sight. 

Arrived  at  home,  he  told  his  parents  and  his 
sisters,  in  one  breath,  of  the  war,  of  his  love,  and  of 
his  prospects  for  the  future.  He  told  how  patriotic 
enthusiasm  had  struck  like  lightning  into  every  heart, 
and  set  aglow  a  flame  that  would  never  henceforth  be 
extinguished.  The  affair  was,  after  all,  only  a  short 
military  excursion,  that  meant  only  a  change  for  a  few 
weeks  or  a  couple  of  months  at  most.  He  would  be 
promoted  ;  he  had  already  so  thoroughly  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  would  distinguish  himself.  He  would 
climb  high  .  .  .  and  higher  still  .  .  . ;  but  it  was  better 
not  to  talk  about  that  in  anticipation.  And  Carmela,  his 
well-beloved,  adored  bride  that  was  to  be,  she  was, 
meanwhile,  waiting  here  at  home  for  her  conqueror.  .  .  . 
His  sisters  must  promise  him  to  visit  her  every  day,  to 
dry  her  tears,  to  persuade  her  that  after  all  there  was  no 
danger  ...  in  this  merry  ride  in  fine  weather  !  So 
he  would  come  back  all  right  when  it  was  over.  .  .  . 
Those  wretched  Turks,  indeed  !  likely  enough  they 
would  have  a  rough  time ;  but,  after  all,  the  more 
advanced  nations  had  their  duties.  Once  for  all,  it 
was  a  civilising  mission,  in  the  accomplishment  of  which 
he  was  about  to  take  part.  .  .  .  They  must  promise 
him,  though,  to  visit  Carmela  every  day. 

At  five  o'clock  the  train  started  from  the  central 
railway  station  in  Rome,  conveying  the  battalion  to 
the  south.  Lieutenant  Nino  sat  wedged  in  between 
two  comrades,  who,  like  himself,  stared  straight  before 
them  wrapped  in  thought.  He  was  still  revelling  in 
the  parting  look  that  Carmela  had  cast  upon  him, 
sending  with  it  her  wishes  for  his  good  fortune.  For, 


104  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

of  course,  she  had  been  with  her  parents,  as  well  as  his 
own  parents  and  sisters,  at  the  railway  station  to  wave 
a  last  farewell  to  the  departing  troops.  In  a  button- 
hole of  his  tunic  he  flaunted  a  rose  that  his  adored  one 
had  given  him  before  all  the  people,  and  his  hand 
closed  upon  a  little  packet  that  she  had  at  the  last 
moment  slipped  into  it.  As  soon  as  he  had  a  quiet 
moment  he  meant  to  see  what  it  contained. 


The  great  square  outside  the  railway  station  was 
black  with  people.  The  fountains,  with  their  massive 
statues  of  women,  sent  up  their  jets  continually ;  but 
the  plash  of  the  falling  water  was  drowned  in  the 
hum  of  the  thousands  gathered  together  there.  The 
inevitable  military  band  had  just  stopped  playing. 
And  now,  out  of  the  station  buildings,  came  those  who 
had  been  able  to  assert  a  right  to  secure  admittance. 
They  were  mostly  friends  and  relations  of  the  soldiers 
and  officers  ;  but  in  their  looks  one  could  not  see  either 
anxiety  or  grief.  The  same  sincere  satisfaction,  that 
was  the  keynote  of  everything  on  this  memorable 
afternoon,  showed  itself  in  their  looks  and  bearing.  The 
important  step  had  been  so  lately  taken  that  no  one 
yet  was  clear  as  to  its  full  significance.  But  little 
waves  of  restlessness,  such  as  precede  a  breaking-up, 
ran  here  and  there  like  strong  quiverings  through  the 
masses  of  people. 

Amongst  those  who  were  slowly  working  their  way 
through  the  crowd  of  spectators,  were  the  Rivarato 
and  Tallandini  families. 

In  front  went  the  two  signoras,  in  animated  con- 
versation about  their  dear  children  and  the  trousseau, 


THE  VICTOR'S  MEED  105 

which  it  really  would  be  better  to  get  ready  at  once, 
for,  after  all,  the  war  could  not  last  long.  After  them 
came  Signorina  Carmela  between  Lieutenant  Nino's 
two  sisters.  One  of  them  hung  on  each  of  her  arms,  and 
they  kept  asking  her  whether  she  did  not  feel  terribly 
upset.  Signorina  Carmela  smilingly  shook  her  head. 
Why  should  she  make  herself  uneasy  !  Her  Nino  had 
assured  her  that  it  would  be  all  over  in  a  few  weeks. 
Last  came  the  two  gentlemen.  They  were  quite  agreed 
as  to  the  dowry  and  settlement.  The  interest  of  these 
and  the  pay  of  a  full  lieutenant  .  .  .  why  not  say  a 
company  captain  at  once,  for  a  young  man  with  Nino's 
capacity  could  not  place  his  expectations  too  high  ?  . .  . 
would  go  far  enough  in  a  small  garrison  town.  The 
two  gentlemen  were  absolutely  of  the  same  opinion, 
and  nodded  to  each  other  to  express  their  mutual 
understanding.  Whereupon  Signor  Tallandini  at  once 
went  on  to  treat  of  what  he  was  to  make  his  favourite 
theme  now  and  for  the  next  few  weeks  :  the  duty 
of  the  more  advanced  nations  to  reduce  the  more 
backward  peoples  to  subjection  in  the  interests  of 
civilisation. 

'  And  just  think  of  the  Church  ! '  he  exclaimed  with 
lively  enthusiasm.  '  What  a  field  for  its  missionary 
energies  ! ' 

Signor  Rivarato  gave  him  a  gentle  poke  in  the 
ribs.  It  was  perhaps  not  prudent  to  speak  of  such 
things  in  public.  One  could  not  know  who  would 
overhear  one. 

But  to-day  there  were  no  differences  of  opinion. 
And  everywhere  the  people  looked  with  sympathetic 
eyes  on  the  relatives  of  the  soldiers  as  they  passed 
in  a  long  line  by  the  way  that  the  carbineers 


io6  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

and  gendarmes  kept  open  for  them  through  the 
crowd. 

Signor  Tallandini  smiled  with  an  air  of  triumph 
at  his  prudent  companion. 

A  quiver  ran  through  the  crowd,  and  a  thundering 
'  Evviva '  echoed  over  the  square.  A  radical  deputy 
had  just  been  delivering  an  oration  a  little  farther  on 
at  a  street  corner,  and,  after  praising  the  Government, 
which  had  been  sagacious  enough  to  perceive  the  psy- 
chological moment  for  action,  he  had  called  for  a 
cheer  for  their  native  land. 

When  once  the  cheering  began,  the  crowd  kept  it 
up.  A  band  of  music,  that  had  suddenly  appeared 
on  the  spot,  broke  out  into  a  patriotic  air  that  was 
continually  accompanied  by  the  '  Evvivas  '  of  the  by- 
standers. Their  excited  movements,  their  flashing 
eyes,  and  the  continual  shouting,  all  were  tokens  of  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  people  banding  themselves  together 
for  a  great  task. 

Signor  Tallandini's  smile  broadened.  He  had 
invested  a  small  part  of  his  property  in  a  business 
undertaking  in  Tripoli.  Now  the  shares  would  rise, 
and  .  .  .  well,  he  had  meant  to  give  them  to  Carmela 
and  Nino — that  was  not  too  much  after  what 
had  happened.  But,  supposing  the  shares  doubled 
in  value,  they  would  naturally  be  content  with 
half  .  .  .  they  might,  perhaps,  rise  to  such  a  price 
that  five-and-twenty  per  cent,  of  the  capital  would 
be  enough. 

Signor  Rivarato  laughed  aloud.  He  had  heard 
passers-by  talk  of  fireworks  that  were  to  be  let  off  on 
the  Capitol  that  evening,  and  he  made,  therefore,  the 
proposal  that  they  should  go  there.  But  Signorina 


THE  VICTOR'S  MEED  107 

Carmela  was  anxious  to  be  at  home.  The  others 
smiled,  and,  with  promises  to  meet  soon  again — there 
was  now  good  reason  for  so  doing — the  two  families 
separated. 

The  whole  of  that  evening  Signorina  Carmela  sat 
alone  in  her  little  bedroom.  Beyond  the  agitation  that 
it  was  the  bounden  duty  of  every  good  patriot  to  feel, 
she  had  no  sense  of  excitement.  All  was  peaceful,  quiet, 
and  calm  as  usual.  And,  after  all,  she  went  to  sleep 
with  a  particularly  pleasant  picture  in  her  mind.  Soon 
— and  indeed  it  was  likely  to  be  very  soon — it  would  be 
her  lot  to  go  for  a  walk  in  the  Corso  leaning  on  a  bersag- 
liere  officer  wearing  a  row  of  medals  for  valour,  and 
decorations. 

At  that  same  hour,  in  the  train  that  was  steadily 
rolling  southwards,  Lieutenant  Nino  sat  gazing  with 
eyes  all  bright  with  happiness  at  the  opposite  side  of 
his  compartment.  He  had  opened  the  little  packet 
and  found  therein  a  miniature  of  the  Madonna.  With 
it  was  a  red-sealed  paper  which  informed  him  that  the 
picture  had  been  blessed  by  the  Holy  Father  himself. 
Surely,  it  would  protect  him  from  danger !  and 
Lieutenant  Nino  vowed  henceforth,  and  always,  to 
wear  it  next  to  his  heart.  Then  he  closed  his 
eyes  and  began  to  dream  .  .  .  the  old  everlasting 
dream  of  the  young  soldier — the  dream  of  love  and 
war. 


It  was  a  few  months  later. 

The  sun  poured  down  its  wealth  of  light  upon  Rome. 
There  was  the  usual  moving  crowd  coming  and  going 
in  the  Corso.  At  times  a  few  would  stop ;  and  at  once 


io8  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

a  group  of  curious  folk  would  form.  But  they  had 
nothing  to  say,  and  the  crowd  would  disperse  again, 
until  some  accident  or  the  shouting  of  a  newsvendor 
would  attract  their  attention. 

The  street — the  corner  of  which  Lieutenant  Nino 
had  turned,  on  as  bright  and  sunny  a  morning  as  this, 
hurrying  on  with  hopes  as  high  as  heaven — was  now 
deserted  and  without  a  single  passer-by.  Only  two  old 
women  stood  before  a  house  door,  talking  half-aloud 
and  with  continual  nodding  of  their  heads  to  each  other. 
At  the  opening  of  a  cellar  a  cat  was  sitting  looking 
dreamily  at  the  dusty  pavement  of  the  street.  But, 
out  of  the  same  house  that  Lieutenant  Nino  had  left  a 
few  months  ago,  accompanied  by  the  tender  looks 
of  his  adored  one,  there  now  came  a  crippled  man  who 
hobbled  slowly  and  painfully  towards  the  Corso.  He 
was  a  young  man,  supporting  himself  with  difficulty 
with  the  help  of  two  stout  sticks.  He  walked  bent 
down,  and  it  was  with  an  effort  that  he  drew  the  left 
foot  forward.  But,  in  the  cripple's  own  opinion,  that 
was  nothing  compared  to  the  horribly  disfigured  state 
of  his  face.  The  left  cheek  had  been  cut  open 
and  stitched  together  again,  the  ear  was  gone,  and 
the  eye  had  been  destroyed  in  its  orbit,  above 
which  the  forehead  was  still  black  with  powder. 
It  was  the  former  lieutenant,  now  the  half-pay 
Captain  Nino  Rivarato,  leaving  for  ever  the  house 
of  his  intended. 

He  went  on,  step  by  step.  His  head  hung  down  on 
his  breast,  and  there  was  a  bitter  smile  on  the  lips  that 
only  with  an  effort  held  back  a  sob.  His  thoughts 
turned  persistently  to  the  fight  in  the  oasis,  where 
his  misfortune  had  come  upon  him. 


THE  VICTOR'S  MEED  109 

It  was  on  a  sunny  day  just  like  this.  His  section 
had  been  pushed  forward  as  an  outpost,  and  lay  half 
buried  in  the  sand. 

As  long  as  he  lived,  Captain  Rivarato  would  never 
forget  the  hours  that  followed. 

He  received  with  actual  delight  the  report  that  the 
Turks  were  in  movement.  At  last  he  would  have  a 
sight  of  this  wretched  enemy  who,  so  far,  had  always 
persisted  in  slipping  away. 

As  the  first  bullets  whistled  over  his  head, 
Lieutenant  Nino  nodded  encouragingly  to  his  men. 
They  answered  with  a  smile  ;  they  were  a  little  excited 
at  this  strange  hissing  sound  in  the  air,  but  they 
were  plucky  and  full  of  confidence,  as  became  true 
bersaglieri.  They  blazed  away  their  cartridges  into 
the  empty  air.  They  even  began  to  laugh  as  they  got 
used  to  their  unaccustomed  experiences. 

Then  came  the  second  stage  of  the  fight,  unex- 
pectedly soon,  and  in  every  respect  quite  against  the 
rules  of  the  autumn  manoeuvres.  Hardly  two  hundred 
yards  away  a  row  of  red  fezzes  suddenly  came  in  sight ; 
and  though  the  section  at  once  doubled  the  rapidity 
of  its  fire,  they  worked  their  way  steadily  nearer. 
Then,  all  at  once,  they  sprang  up  from  their  cover,  and 
came  rushing  on  with  deafening  shouts  of  '  Allah  !  '  At 
the  same  time  a  green  standard  rose  up  on  the  right 
and  a  mass  of  bare-legged,  dark-skinned  Arabs  dashed 
like  madmen  at  the  position.  Right  in  front  of  him 
Lieutenant  Nino  saw  the  poppy-red  caps.  They  were 
all  coming  forward  at  him  and  his  men,  racing  over  the 
waves  of  sand,  nearer  and  nearer,  now  disappearing  in 
a  cloud  of  dust,  now  emerging  from  it  again.  Great 
gaps  opened  out  at  times  in  their  line ;  but,  all  the  same, 


no  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

in  the  next  second  these  were  filled  up  by  fresh  crowds 
of  men.  It  was  like  a  race  of  mad  rivalry,  a  hellish 
tumult,  that  raged  relentlessly  onward  like  a  stormy 
flood. 

The  men  of  Nino's  section  fired  without  aiming, 
expended  their  cartridges  without  taking  count  of 
them;  but  held  their  ground  bravely.  All  around 
rose  the  unceasing  rattle  of  musketry — whether  of 
friends  or  foes,  he  could  not  judge  ;  and  behind  him  a 
battery  was  thundering.  He  noticed  some  hollows  in 
the  sand  close  in  front,  called  out  to  his  soldiers  to 
aim  lower,  and  pointed  with  his  sword  to  the  assailants. 

The  red  line  drew  nearer,  pushing  relentlessly 
forward.  To  the  right  the  Allah  shouts  roared  with 
the  fury  of  a  hurricane ;  to  the  left  the  Turks  were 
working  their  way  onward  with  headlong  speed. 
Somewhere  behind  the  section  there  was  the  thunder 
of  cannon.  There  was  an  acrid,  nauseating  smell  of 
singed  cloth  and  blood.  His  gums  were  dry,  but  the 
sweat  ran  in  streams  down  his  cheeks. 

Then  there  were  sharply  separated  details  that 
remained  fixed  in  his  memory.  Just  beside  him  a 
man  fell,  huddled  together  on  all  fours  and  stood  up 
again  at  once,  drew  his  limbs  together,  and  then 
stretched  himself  on  the  ground  with  the  unconscious, 
unfeeling,  but  precise  movements  of  an  automaton. 
His  tunic  was  torn  and  covered  with  blood.  Lieutenant 
Nino  called  out  a  question  to  him.  As  if  he  heard  it, 
the  man  stopped  stretching  himself,  and  lay  motionless. 
Lieutenant  Nino  saw  that  he  was  dead,  and  turned 
his  eyes  away  to  the  other  side.  A  corporal  slipped  out 
of  the  firing-line — a  bersagliere  corporal  deserting  his 
post  and  taking  to  flight  in  the  midst  of  battle  !  A 


THE  VICTOR'S  MEED  in 

blush  of  shame  reddened  Lieutenant  Nino's  cheeks, 
and  he  opened  his  mouth  to  recall  the  coward  to  his 
duty.  But  to  his  own  surprise  he  said,  loud  and 
clear : 

'  This  kind  of  thing  is  no  real  war  .  .  .  no,  certainly 
not.' 

Lieutenant  Nino  looked  round  him,  fearful  that 
some  one  might  have  heard  the  words.  But  no  one  was 
paying  any  attention,  and  he  laughed  with  the  sense 
of  relief.  And  then  at  once  he  was  serious  again,  for 
he  had  perceived  that  the  corporal  was  wounded.  The 
poor  fellow — if  he  were  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the 
Turks  .  .  .  before  he  could  think  out  the  idea  to  the 
end,  Lieutenant  Nino's  compassion  for  the  wounded 
man  was  cut  short ;  for,  close  beside  him,  two  men  fell 
at  the  same  moment.  The  one  looked  with  a  terrified 
face  into  the  eyes  of  his  officer ;  the  other  lay  on  his 
back  in  an  unnaturally  constrained  position  with  his 
knees  drawn  up  to  his  chin,  while  slight  quivers  ran 
through  his  body.  It  was  not  possible  for  Lieutenant 
Nino  to  see  the  expression  of  his  face,  and  yet  at  the 
moment  he  felt  an  eager  longing  to  look  at  it.  He 
stood  up  beside  the  poor  fellow.  A  hurricane  of  pro- 
jectiles came  sweeping  horizontally  just  above  his 
head,  so  that  the  cock's  plume  fluttered  in  the  wind 
of  them.  He  dropped  down  again,  and  laid  himself 
flat  on  the  ground,  trying  to  think  and  once  more  he 
murmured : 

'  This  kind  of  thing  is  no  real  war  .  .  .  no,  certainly 
not.' 

He  wanted  to  say  something  quite  different ;  but 
just  these  words  found  a  way  to  his  parched  lips. 

Behind   him    a   dozen    wounded    were    huddled 


H2  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

together  in  the  sand.  A  hundred  paces  farther  back 
a  party  of  ambulance  soldiers  appeared ;  but  they 
went  out  of  sight  again,  at  once,  as  if  they  had 
been  swallowed  up  by  the  earth.  The  cannon  thun- 
dered ever  more  fiercely.  The  stale,  nauseating 
smell  of  blood  tormented  him.  The  sweat  ran  from 
every  pore.  But,  then,  it  was  a  terribly  hot 
day. 

The  shout  of  '  Allah  '  rang  out  nearer  than  before. 
The  green  standard  on  the  right  seemed  to  rush  over 
the  ground,  staggered,  went  down  for  a  moment,  but 
was  up  high  again  and  came  nearer.  It  was  now  close 
on  the  right  wing  of  the  section  that  certainly  could 
not  hold  it  back  for  long.  Lieutenant  Nino  raised 
himself  on  one  knee.  It  was  his  duty  to  hasten  to  the 
threatened  point.  But  the  red  caps  were  quite  as 
near.  The  lieutenant  glanced  in  perplexity  now  to 
the  right,  now  towards  the  Turks. 

A  shell  struck  close  to  the  right  wing  and  exploded 
in  a  cloud  of  dust.  A  quiver  ran  down  the  ranks  from 
man  to  man.  '  Is  it  our  own  artillery  or  theirs  that  is 
firing  at  us  ?  '  was  the  question  that  flashed  through 
Lieutenant  Nino's  brain.  He  never  found  the  answer 
to  it.  For  events  now  followed  each  other  with  be- 
wildering speed,  now  standing  out  apart,  now  mingling 
one  with  another,  and  a  score  of  dramatic  scenes,  each 
of  which  riveted  the  attention  upon  itself,  were  being 
played  out  all  close  by.  Over  the  right  there  hung  a 
dense  cloud  of  dust  and  sand.  He  could  see  indis- 
tinctly how  some  of  his  brave  bersaglieri  sprang  up 
and  ran  into  it.  High  over  them  towered  the  green 
standard.  Then  a  gust  of  wind — it  was  a  wonder 
there  was  a  breath  of  wind  at  all  in  this  infernal  heat 


THE  VICTOR'S  MEED  113 

— made  some  rifts  in  the  cloud.  For  a  moment 
he  caught  glimpses  of  fluttering  burnous,  brown 
legs,  wide-open  mouths  that  looked  like  bloody 
wounds.  Half  the  men  on  the  right  wing  were  out  of 
action. 

Lieutenant  Nino  sprang  up.  In  his  right  hand 
he  held  his  revolver ;  in  his  left,  his  sword,  with  which 
he  made  hurried  signals  to  his  men.  Hardly  one  of 
them  had  seen  the  signal,  but  at  the  same  moment  the 
men  were  on  their  feet.  Instinct  had  told  them  all 
how  dangerous  it  was  to  remain  any  longer  in  the  prone 
position.  A  few  hurried  words,  and  they  were  all 
rallied  close  around  their  lieutenant. 

The  Turks  were  now  hardly  ten  paces  away. 
Lieutenant  Nino  cast  a  contemptuous  look  upon  them. 
He  saw  a  row  of  fixed,  lustreless,  dull  eyes  in  the 
perspiring  faces  under  the  poppy-red  headgear.  A 
senseless  yell  came  from  their  mouths,  and  they  moved 
their  feet  like  automata.  They  were  weary,  exhausted, 
at  the  end  of  their  energy,  and  yet  they  ran  forward. 
Lieutenant  Nino  took  a  careful  aim  at  a  tall  fellow  and 
pressed  his  pistol-trigger. 

He  had  no  time  to  see  whether  the  bullet  had  reached 
its  mark.  A  Turkish  officer  who  had  run  forward 
some  paces  in  front  of  his  men  had  noticed  Lieutenant 
Nino,  and  turned  from  the  direction  he  had  till  then 
kept.  With  teeth  clenched  together  and  flashing  eyes, 
he  hurled  himself  upon  his  enemy.  Hatred,  and  the 
longing  for  revenge,  blazed  in  his  eyes. 

'  Why  does  he  hate  me  ?  We  have  never  seen 
each  other,  never  exchanged  a  word/  was  the  thought 
that  came  swimming  through  Lieutenant  Nino's 
brain. 


H4  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Nevertheless,  he  bit  his  lips  together ;  aimed  at  the 
Turk,  and  fired.  He  was  still  running  forward  when 
Lieutenant  Nino's  revolver-shot  rang  out ;  but  two 
paces  from  his  enemy,  the  Turk  collapsed  and  came 
crashing  to  the  ground.  He  tore  up  the  sand  with  his 
hands ;  his  revolver,  with  its  long  since  emptied 
cartridge-pouch,  struck  against  one  of  the  lieutenant's 
feet,  his  head  swung  sidelong,  as  if  his  neck  were  broken. 
Then  he  turned  his  face  to  his  enemy,  spat  madly  out 
some  Turkish  word  of  insult,  and  rolled  heavily  over 
on  his  side. 

Then  came  the  misfortune. 

As  if  he  had  sprung  out  of  the  yet  warm  body  of  the 
fallen  man,  a  Turkish  soldier  leapt  at  him  from  the 
ground  itself.  All  expression  of  intelligence  was  gone 
from  the  man's  eyes,  and  his  lower  jaw  hung  loosely 
down  ;  but  his  arms  accomplished  their  work.  Obliquely 
from  below,  his  bayonet  drove  into  Lieutenant  Nino's 
head.  The  sharp  edge  of  it  ran  through  the  left 
cheek,  scraping  against  the  jaw-bone.  It  felt  as  if 
something  had  exploded  in  his  brain.  And  at  once 
there  followed  another  explosion ;  for,  at  the  moment 
that  the  bayonet-stab  went  in,  the  Turk  had  fired 
his  rifle.  A  fierce  burning  as  the  nerves  reacted  to 
hitherto  undreamt-of  pain ;  the  muscles  contracted 
only  to  become  completely  relaxed  in  the  next  second  ; 
Lieutenant  Nino  fell  down  without  further  effort, 
and  lay  unconscious. 

How  long  he  lay  there  senseless  he  knew  not.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  something  immeasurably  heavy 
was,  after  a  certain  interval,  pressing  one  of  his  legs 
down  into  the  sand.  There  was  a  noise  and  din  like 
thunder.  Lieutenant  Nino  felt  as  if  the  heavens 


THE  VICTOR'S  MEED  115 

were  falling  down  and  the  earth  sinking  away,  and, 
with  a  hoarse  groan,  he  stammered  out : 

'  Carmela  .  .  .  water  .  .  .  !    I  am  burning  ! ' 


He  awoke  faint  and  weak  in  a  hospital  shed,  and 
a  volunteer  ambulance-man  told  him  how  the  regiment 
had  made  a  brilliant  bayonet  charge.  The  Turks 
had  been  thoroughly  beaten.  Lieutenant  Nino  knew 
that  it  was  his  duty  to  be  glad  at  this,  but  he  felt  no 
gladness. 

The  attendant  looked  down  at  him  with  a  strange 
questioning  expression  in  his  eyes,  and  as  if  from  an 
endless  distance.  Lieutenant  Nino  felt  frightened, 
and  put  his  right  hand  up  to  his  head,  which  was 
enveloped  in  bandages ;  but  he  did  not  dare  to  ask 
anything.  Wearily  he  closed  his  eyes  and  fell  into  a 
dull  painful  sleep. 

A  month  later  he  left  the  hospital  and  joined  a 
convoy  of  wounded  who  were  being  sent  to  the  home 
country.  He  was  still  far  from  being  restored  to 
health — that  might  take  months  yet — but  he  wanted 
to  be  at  home.  He  was  a  cripple,  and  frightfully 
disfigured.  A  mirror  had  told  him  this ;  and  a  wild 
terror  of  something  that  he  had  never  imagined  he 
would  have  to  endure,  seized  upon  him  as  for  the 
first  time  he  looked  upon  the  empty  eye-socket.  And 
below  it  there  was  the  severed  cheek,  on  which  stood 
out  clearly  the  scars  of  the  stitches  that  had  been  put  in 
to  sew  the  wound  together.  Then  there  was  his  foot. 
That  was  a  very  simple  story.  The  artillery  had  been 
pushed  forward  and  occupied  the  hill  that  his  section 
had  so  heroically  defended.  It  was  then  that  a 

i  a 


n6  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

gun-wheel  went  over  an  instep  of  the  fallen  lieutenant. 
Such  things  happen  in  every  war  and  cannot  be 
avoided.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  guide  horses  that  have 
become  half  wild ;  haste,  noise,  and  confusion  account 
for  everything. 

When  this  explanation  was  imparted  to  him,  Lieu- 
tenant Nino  bowed  his  head  and  limped  out  between  his 
two  sticks.  He  was  deep  in  thought  and  only  said 
in  a  broken  voice  : 

'  This  kind  of  thing  is  no  real  war  .  .  .  no,  cer- 
tainly not.' 

It  sounded  like  a  protest  against  some  secret 
doubt ;  and  those  who  heard  him  shrugged  their 
shoulders  as  they  looked  after  the  cripple.  It  was  a 
real  stroke  of  good  luck  that  he  was  lying  in  soft 
sand,  otherwise  an  amputation  would  have  been 
necessary. 

Then  came  the  heartily  friendly  farewell  of  his 
comrades.  All  the  officers  of  the  regiment  came  in  a 
body  to  visit  him  before  he  started  for  home. 

Captain  Vitale — a  distinguished  soldier — spoke  for 
all  the  others. 

'  Rivarato — brave  young  man — your  gallant  defence 
.  .  .  um  .  .  .  made  .  .  .  um  .  .  .  the  unexpec- 
tedly happy  result  of  our  attack  possible.  Not  we, 
but  you,  are  the  victor.  If  you  had  abandoned  the 
position  .  .  .' 

'  Such  a  thing  never  even  came  into  my  mind/ 
stammered  Lieutenant  Nino,  quite  embarrassed. 

'  .  .  .  We  would  have  had  a  much  harder  task/ 
Captain  Vitale  went  on  ;  and  then,  turning  to  the  other 
officers :  '  Do  you  hear  ?  It  never  even  came  into  his 
mind  that  he  could  retire  ! — Attention  !  At  the  salute  ! 


THE  VICTOR'S  MEED  117 

Allow  me  ...  um  ...  in  the  name  of  the  regiment 
.  .  .  um  ...  I  thank  the  victor  \  ' 

Soon  after  this,  Lieutenant  Nino  went  home  with  the 
certainty  that  he  would  be  promoted  to  the  rank  of 
captain.  At  the  same  time,  he  would  of  course  be 
pensioned  off,  for  he  was  utterly  unfit  for  military 
service.  He  saw  in  his  promotion  a  very  poor  conso- 
lation for  his  forced  retirement.  But  his  Carmela 
would  ...  He  did  not  end  the  sentence.  When 
he  was  not  thinking  of  the  young  girl,  who  most 
assuredly  would  keep  her  pledge  to  him,  he  was 
brooding  over  what  had  befallen  him. 

They  had  talked,  indeed,  of  a  merry  riding  ex- 
cursion, with,  perhaps,  some  little  adventures  on  the 
way.  Instead  of  that,  he  had  all  the  time  run  up  against 
filth,  privation,  and  indescribable  toil.  The  lively 
joyous  march  under  fluttering  flags  and  to  the  clang  of 
music,  the  storm  of  cheers,  the  excitement  of  victory 
— in  short,  all  that  makes  war  poetical,  and  the  aspect 
of  it  one  sees  in  the  illustrated  papers — was  simply 
something  non-existent.  It  was  nothing  else  but  an 
everlasting  burrowing  in  sand;  hunger  and  thirst.  Then 
one  had  to  be  looking  after  one's  men  who  would  be 
continually  blundering  into  a  thousand  bits  of  impru- 
dence ;  and  worry  about  oneself  at  the  same  time 
with  the  haunting  fear  of  having  made  some  mistake 
or  overlooked  something  of  importance.  The  whole 
thing  was  a  wild  medley  of  ambushes,  wretched  little 
stratagems,  useless  talk,  and  insuperable  difficulties 
that  one  tried  to  wriggle  out  of.  It  went  on  mostly 
with  the  help  of  chance,  which,  on  the  whole,  was 
favourable ;  for  the  two  adversaries  were  about  equally 
involved  in  the  muddle. 


n8  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

The  climax  of  it  all  was  that  hard  contested  fight 
in  which  he  was  maimed  for  life,  he  and  a  dozen  others. 
Not  only  were  they  denied  the  hero's  death,  with 
its  fame  for  all  the  future,  but  they  were  cast  aside 
like  useless  lumber.  The  hand-to-hand  conflict  had 
degenerated  into  a  frantic  fight  of  mad  dogs,  snapping 
at  each  other's  throats.  It  was  fear,  hate,  thirst  for 
vengeance,  that  guided  the  hands  and  directed  the 
weapons ;  it  was  .  .  .  well,  nothing  like  what  he  had 
expected  or  imagined.  .  .  .  All  that  he  had  read 
in  the  school  and  the  military  academy  had  been 
swept  out  of  his  conscious  knowledge  by  the  brutal 
reality.  With  the  naive  vexation  of  a  disappointed 
child,  he  would  often  repeat  to  himself  the  words  that 
had  come  to  his  tongue  at  that  moment  when  there 
dawned  upon  him  a  dark  suspicion  of  his  own  mistake 
and  that  of  so  many  others  : 

'  This  kind  of  thing  is  no  real  war  .  .  .  no, 
certainly  not !  ' 


The  former  lieutenant  of  bersaglieri,  Nino 
Rivarato,  stopped  in  the  street  with  a  deep  sigh 
and  rested  a  while.  Every  step  was  an  effort  for 
him. 

His  meeting  with  his  betrothed  had  been  the  most 
painful  moment  of  his  life.  The  gesture  of  horror 
and  involuntary  aversion  with  which,  at  the  sight 
of  him,  Signorina  Carmela  had  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands  would  for  ever  remain  in  his  memory.  And 
it  made  mercilessly  clear  to  him  that  this  dream 
had  been  nothing  but  a  dream.  A  further  insistence  on 
the  fulfilment  of  the  engagement  would  befit  no  man 


THE  VICTOR'S  MEED  119 

who  stood  upon  his  dignity.  With  an  infinite  sense 
of  weary  misery,  the  former  Lieutenant  Nino  Rivarato 
saw  Signorina  Carmela  move  falteringly  out  of  the 
room,  supported  on  the  arm  of  her  mother.  Yet 
she  had  known  long  since  that  he  was  wounded, 
she  had  had  time  to  prepare  herself  for  this,  and  .  .  . 
Lieutenant  Nino  shrugged  his  shoulders,  the  whole 
thing  was  so  utterly  hopeless. 

Signer  Tallandini  accompanied  him  to  the  door. 
He  was  in  a  bad  humour  and  made  no  secret  of  it. 
This  stupid  war  had  already  lasted  far  too  long.  His 
Tripoli  shares  had  not  risen  in  any  way  as  he  hoped  ; 
on  the  contrary,  they  were  now  almost  worthless. 
Really,  it  was  no  time  for  thinking  about  weddings. 

'  War  !  '  snarled  Signor  Tallandini.  '  A  civilised 
nation  does  not  involve  itself  in  that  kind  of  folly  ! 
Culture  and  higher  development  present  other  tasks 
to  it.' 

Lieutenant  Nino  had  taken  his  departure  in  the 
midst  of  a  dissertation  on  the  nature  and  significance 
of  these  tasks. 

A  few  steps  from  the  corner  of  the  street  he  once 
more  came  to  a  standstill  and  sighed.  The  cat  at  the 
cellar  door  ran  off  in  a  fright,  and  the  two  old  women 
stared  curiously  at  the  disfigured  cripple. 

'  Other  tasks,'  thought  the  half -pay  Captain  Nino 
Rivarato,  shrugging  his  shoulders  indifferently.  '  Yes, 
there  are  plenty  of  them  for  individuals  and  for 
whole  nations.  Everywhere  tasks  are  waiting  that 
are  necessary,  imperative,  full  of  hope  for  the  future ; 
but  they  will  never  be  fulfilled.  Most  of  them  will  be 
shirked  ;  the  rest  will  be  forgotten  or  bungled.  In 
other  words,  we  must  always  be  preparing  for  war 


120  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

and  for  death,  because  peace  and  life  have  lost  their 
significance  in  comparison  with  these  two  things  that 
most  people  consider  far  more  important.' 

Weary  and  listless,  he  hobbled  on  between  his  two 
sticks,  and  disappeared  in  the  crowds  of  the  Corso. 


IV 
THE  FANTASIA 

SHEIKH  ABDALLAH  rose  in  all  his  imposing  height. 
His  great  beard,  in  which  a  few  iron-grey  hairs  were 
conspicuous,  flowed  down  his  broad  chest.  From 
under  his  half-closed  eyelids  the  sheikh  gazed  straight 
before  him.  He  drew  a  deep  breath,  filling  his  lungs 
with  air,  and  began  to  speak. 

'  You  tell  me  that  the  Italians  have  broken  the 
peace,  and  unprovoked  have  attacked  the  children 
of  the  Prophet.  Your  words  ring  strangely  in  my 
ears.  Your  "unprovoked"  seems  to  me  so  significant, 
that  a  deeper  meaning  must  underlie  the  word.' 

'  Sheikh  Abdallah  Ibn  Hamkal,  my  words  contain 
the  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth/  replied  the 
Turkish  officer,  who  had  risen  when  his  host  stood  up. 

'  The  truth — may  it  be  glorified  and  increased  ! 
And  may  the  Unbelievers,  blinded  with  its  light, 
become  as  new-dropped  dogs  ! '  The  words,  although 
Abdallah  hissed  them  out  between  his  tight-set  lips, 
were  distinctly  audible  in  every  corner  of  the  room. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  impassive.  Then  his  strained 
features  relaxed,  and  with  a  salaam  he  bade  his  guest 


122  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

farewell.  Slowly  he  crossed  the  room  to  the  compound ; 
between  two  of  the  columns  he  paused,  and  said,  over 
his  right  shoulder  :  '  I  will  communicate  my  resolution 
to-morrow  evening.' 

The  Turkish  officer  made  a  movement  as  if  he 
meant  to  detain  the  sheikh  with  an  objection.  The 
objection  was  never  uttered,  for  in  the  eyes  of  the 
young  man  standing  opposite  to  him  he  encountered 
a  look  of  warning. 

'  Keep  quiet !  '  counselled  everything  about  the 
emotionless  figure. 

The  Turk  morosely  shrugged  his  shoulders.  To 
take  his  cue  from  this  silent  admonition  was,  perhaps, 
his  wisest  course. 

For  one  minute  the  three  men  who  were  left  in  the 
room  stood  looking  at  one  another.  So  long  as  Sheikh 
Abdallah  had  been  present,  he  alone  had  been  the 
cynosure  of  all  eyes. 

'  Will  you  not  sit  down  ? '  asked  the  man  who  had 
silenced  the  Turk  with  a  glance. 

'  With  pleasure  ! '  The  officer  sank  back  to  the 
cushions  and  drew  up  his  legs.  He  looked  expectantly 
at  the  young  man  who  had  just  spoken. 

'  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal,'  replied  the  latter,  interpreting 
the  glance  as  a  question. 

'  Fermal  Bey/  quickly  returned  the  Turk,  although 
this  was  the  second  time  he  had  mentioned  his  name. 

Djafar  thanked  him  with  a  bow  of  the  head  and 
pointing  to  the  third  person  present,  '  My  brother 
Mansur,'  said  he. 

'  Who  does  not  know  Abdallah  Ibn  Hamkal's 
sons  ?  '  was  the  Turk's  courteous  reply. 

Djafar  gazed  straight  in  front  of  him  as  if  he  had 


THE  FANTASIA  123 

not  even  heard  the  remark,  but  Mansur  flushed  with 
satisfaction. 

The  two  brothers  had  taken  a  seat  side  by  side. 
A  short  silence  ensued. 

*  You  are  come  out  of  season/  began  Djafar. 

'  Such  news  as  mine  is  never  in  season/  parried 
Fermal  Bey,  with  a  smile ;  '  to  say  nothing  of  the 
messenger  who  delivers  it/ 

'  Your  news  is  several  days  old,  captain/ 

Fermal  Bey  looked  away,  and  for  a  few  seconds 
endeavoured  to  grasp  the  meaning  concealed  in  this 
answer. 

'  You  surely  do  not  think  .  .  / 

Djafar  raised  a  protesting  hand. 

'  Your  coming  is  not  opportune/  he  said,  '  only 
because  we  are  this  week  solemnising  my  brother's 
wedding.  Nothing  else  was  meant/ 

'  That  explains  the  Bedouin  encampment  that  I 
saw  before  the  city  gates.  I  rejoice,  Djafar  Ibn 
Hamkal,  that  you  are  mistaken.  But  mistaken  you  cer- 
tainly are  ;  I  could  never  have  come  at  a  better  time/ 

'  If  my  father  gives  you  his  answer  by  to-morrow 
evening,  then  I  too  shall  know  whether  your  coming  is 
seasonable  or  not/ 

Fermal  Bey  leapt  up  from  his  cushion. 

'  Djafar  .  .  .  and  you,  Mansur,  you  are  both  sons 
of  a  Marabout/ l  he  eagerly  began.  '  One  of  you  must 
one  day  inherit  the  honour.  When  that  time  comes, 
one  or  perhaps  even  both  of  you  will  become  saints. 
To  belong  to  such  a  race  as  yours  imposes  obligations. 
What  more  need  I  say  ? ' 

1  A  devout  Mussulman 


124  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Djafar  and  Mansur  turned  their  eyes  upon  the 
Turk ;  the  only  expression  on  their  faces  was  one 
of  quiet  astonishment  at  their  guest's  unseemly 
vehemence. 

'  Are  you  not  tired  after  your  ride  ?  '  asked  Djafar 
at  length. 

Fermal  Bey  bit  his  under-lip.  He  saw  how  gravely 
he  had  sinned  against  etiquette,  and  he  regretted  it  ; 
but  he  was  too  proud  to  beg  pardon. 

'  So  you  think  I  must  wait  until  to-morrow  evening/ 
said  Fermal  Bey  with  a  twitch  of  his  shoulders,  irritated 
by  their  impassiveness. 

'  You  are  free  to  use  your  own  judgment.' 

'  The  horses  need  rest.' 

Djafar  assented  with  a  nod  :  that  was  an  answer 
which  he  could  understand. 

A  few  minutes  wore  away. 

Fermal  Bey  thought  over  his  commission.  He 
was  to  gather  together  the  clans  in  the  south-western 
part  of  the  country  and  lead  them  to  the  coast.  Should 
he  succeed  in  inducing  Sheikh^Abdallah  to  break  camp, 
the  object  of  his  mission  would  be  to  a  great  extent 
attained.  Let  a  rumour  of  the  chieftain's  ride  to 
the  north  but  leak  out,  and  the  Bedouins  for  many 
miles  around  would  follow  his  example.  Their  fighting 
spirit  would  be  kindled,  and  even  from  across  the  border 
fresh  hordes  would  pour  in,  willing  to  fight  against  the 
Infidels. 

The  brothers  sat  as  still  as  statues.  Their  thoughts 
were  busy  with  the  tidings  brought  in  by  the  Turk — 
tidings  which  were  really  no  news  at  all  since  rumours 
of  an  Italian  attack  had  been  noised  abroad  during  the 
whole  of  the  summer.  But  these  reports  had  always 


THE  FANTASIA  125 

turned  out  to  be  untrue.  Neither  the  Italians  nor 
yet  the  French,  only  a  two-days'  journey  away,  had 
appeared.  Sheikh  Abdallah,  too,  had  hinted  darkly 
of  the  ever-deferred  attack ;  but  he  had  never  given 
his  sons  to  understand  how  he  intended  them  to  act. 
The  wily  Djafar  would  sometimes  fancy  that  his  father 
would  sit  at  home  with  his  hands  in  his  lap,  or  perhaps 
even  sell  his  co-operation  to  the  highest  bidder.  The 
Turks  were  nothing  if  not  unpopular  .  .  .  and  the 
Unbelievers  .  .  .  well,  they  would,  presumably,  remain 
at  the  coast.  Not  with  so  much  as  a  look  did  Djafar 
betray  his  thoughts. 

Mansur  had  let  his  chin  fall  on  his  breast.  He  did 
not  share  Djafar's  gift  of  complete  self-control. 

'  The  fight/  he  thought,  '  the  fight  of  which  you 
used  to  dream  as  a  boy,  is  now  awaiting  you.'  He 
heaved  a  heavy  sigh.  Surely  his  father  would  not  say 
No.  And  he  quickly  ran  over  in  his  mind  what  Fermal 
Bey  had  just  related.  The  Italians  had  begun  to 
bombard  Tripoli,  without  so  much  as  declaring  war. 
With  cannons,  of  whose  size  he  could  form  no  idea,  they 
had  shattered  buildings  and  mutilated  human  beings. 
And,  after  the  town  had  been  evacuated  by  the  Turkish 
garrison,  it  had  been  occupied  by  the  aliens. 

A  sigh  burst  from  Mansur 's  breast.  The  matter  was 
to  him  incomprehensible.  No  challenge,  no  intimation 
as  to  what  was  to  happen,  only  a  curt  '  Clear  out  of 
this  ...  or  else  .  .  .'  He  looked  sympathetically  at 
the  Turk,  who  had  so  vividly  described  the  rage  of  the 
garrison,  and  the  cold  fury  of  the  officers  obliged  to 
leave  everything  behind  them  in  their  flight  before 
those  terrible  cannons  dominating  the  whole  coastline. 
A  deep  blush  spread  over  Mansur's  cheeks.  The 


126  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

brutality  of  the  sudden  attack,  and  the  cynicism  of 
grabbing  a  country  which  belonged  to  others,  infuriated 
him.  Why  not  have  procured  an  equal  number  of 
cannons — cannons  with  the  same  power  to  strike 
terror  ?  That  was  the  whole  question.  Why  .  .  .  ? 
Mansur  clenched  his  hands.  Was  it  not  his  duty 
to  defend  the  country  of  his  co-religionists  ?  He 
unclenched  his  fists,  and  his  arms  sank  slowly  down 
to  his  sides.  Next  evening  he  was  to  see  his  bride 
for  the  first  time.  Could  he  leave  her  ?  .  .  .  would 
he  leave  her  ? 

'  Rumours  are  like  the  wind/  said  Djafar  beside 
him. 

'  But  truth  is  like  the  rays  of  the  sun,'  retorted 
Fermal  Bey.  '  They  penetrate  all  things  with  their 
blinding  light.' 

Djafar  nodded  his  head.  The  Turk  was  a  skilful 
diplomat. 

Once  more  a  brief  silence  arose.  The  eyes  of  the 
three  men  met  in  searching  inquiry,  turned  aside,  and 
then  crossed  again. 

'  The  sun  is  going  down,'  said  Djafar  at  last.  '  Even 
if  you  are  come  unbidden,  we  yet  hope  you  will  share 
our  evening  meal  and  be  present  at  our  fantasia 
to-morrow,  Many  were  invited,  and  many  who  were 
not  have,  nevertheless,  put  in  an  appearance.  Sheikh 
Abdallah's  sons  have  a  shake-down  and  food  enough 
for  all.' 

'  I  shall  stay  here  since  such  is  your  wish.' 

'  My  father's  will  directs  everything ;  my  own 
nothing.  Who  am  I  that  Sheikh  Abdallah  Ibn 
Hamkal  and  Djafar  should  be  named  in  the  same 
breath  ?  ' 


THE  FANTASIA  127 

Fermal  Bey  bent  his  head  in  order  to  hide  the 
smile  which  involuntarily  curled  his  lips  at  this  ex-  . 
cessive  humility. 

A  sidelong  glance,  swift  and  mistrustful;  then 
Djafar  lowered  his  eyes.  He  got  up  somewhat  quicker 
than  usual  and  politely  inquired  : 

'  Will  you  come  with  me  ?  ' 

Fermal  Bey  followed  his  host's  eldest  son,  while 
Mansur  walked  behind  them,  dreamy  and  silent. 
They  stepped  across  the  open  quadrangle ;  its  one 
beauty  was  a  cluster  of  climbing  roses  :  they  covered 
the  walls  up  to  the  roof  of  the  house.  At  the  other 
side  of  the  courtyard  was  a  row  of  apartments ;  all 
were  small  and  low.  A  few  benches  with  bright- 
coloured  coverlets,  together  with  one  or  two  footstools, 
composed  the  whole  of  the  furniture.  Had  the  Turk 
not  known  from  the  first  that  Abdallah  Ibn  Hamkal 
counted  as  one  of  the  most. influential  sheikhs  in  the 
whole  •  of  Tripoli,  he  would,  at  sight  of  these  simple 
appointments,  have  felt  a  misgiving  and  have  regarded 
his  mission  as  a  failure.  As  it  was,  he  merely  asked 
himself  whether  this  shabby  bareness  was  not  purposely 
meant  to  deceive.  He  believed  he  might  answer 
Yes,  with  a  quiet  mind.  Assuredly,  Sheikh  Abdallah, 
the  head  of  the  Malachite  sect  in  that  part  of  the 
country,  knew  what  he  was  doing  and  what  he  was 
leaving  undone.  Once  more  the  Turk  smiled  a  subtle 
smile  of  fellow-feeling. 

Djafar  strode  across  the  middle  of  the  compound 
instead  of  following,  as  would  have  been  simplest, 
the  colonnade  which  ran  round  it.  Fermal  Bey  did 
not  give  this  a  thought,  until  for  the  third  time  he 
bore  to  the  left.  Then  he  divined  that  there  was 


128  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

something  which  his  companion  wished  to  show  him. 
His  eyes  darted  quickly  on  every  side.  On  his  right 
lay  a  room  in  partial  darkness,  and  in  it  sat  Sheikh 
Abdallah  on  a  pile  against  the  wall.  Was  it  Djafar's 
intention  to  conduct  him  to  that  room  ?  No  ;  Djafar 
passed  on,  apparently  without  noticing  his  father. 
The  officer's  eyes  peered  wide-awake  into  the  small 
white-washed  chamber,  whilst  he  purposely  slackened 
his  pace  in  order  to  gain  a  moment  or  two. 

Majestic  and  motionless,  the  sheikh  was  enthroned 
on  a  mountain  of  bolsters  and  cushions.  He  held  in 
his  hand  a  scroll  of  paper,  while  similar  scrolls  lay 
about  him.  His  eyes  stared  straight  forward,  wide 
open  and  glittering.  Not  a  twitch  of  the  lids  betrayed 
that  he  had  noticed  the  passer-by.  The  Turk  flashed 
one  last  glance  upon  the  sheikh.  No  ;  that  was  no 
pretence  on  the  latter's  part ;  it  was  .  .  .  ecstasy. 
Sheikh  Abdallah's  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  white 
ceiling  overhead.  Everything  round  about  him  was 
lost  to  sight.  The  world  no  longer  existed ;  the 
marabout  was  communing  with  his  God. 

Fermal  Bey's  steps  grew  noiseless.  He  turned 
round  to  Mansur,  whose  breath  blew  warm  upon  his 
neck. 

'  God  is  just/  said  the  young  man  enthusiastically. 

The  impression  of  something  supernatural  vanished 
when  Fermal  Bey  lost  sight  of  the  sheikh.  He  bit 
his  lower  lip  and  thought  crossly  that  his  commission 
was  no  easy  one.  The  youth  behind  him  was  won, 
but  how  about  his  elder  brother  ?  The  officer  shook 
his  head  ;  Djafar's  closeness  and  craft  was  not  to  his 
liking.  And  the  old  man  whose  inspirations  came 
through  his  prayers  to  Allah  ...  he  ...  The 


THE  FANTASIA  129 

young  Turk,  with  his  European  training,  again  bit  his 
lips. 

Djafar  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  room,  exactly  like 
the  one  they  had  just  passed,  and  showed  his  guest  in 
first.  Fermal  Bey  thanked  him  with  an  inclination 
of  the  head. 

The  dishes  were  already  served  up.  They  stood 
on  an  octagonal  table  no  higher  than  a  bench.  On  the 
floor  were  spread  a  few  mats.  Fermal  Bey  pretended 
not  to  notice  the  affected  simplicity  in  everything,  and 
sat  down  on  a  mat  opposite  the  door,  and  then  began 
to  eat  with  his  fingers. 

The  meal  consisted  of  cooked  rice,  the  inevitable 
kous-kous,  figs,  and  dates.  The  drink  was  spring- 
water  or  else  sour  milk. 

Nobody  spoke  a  word  ;  the  one  thing  which  broke 
the  silence  in  the  room  was  when,  every  now  and  then, 
Djafar  gave  a  sort  of  grunt.  Evidently  the  eldest  son 
of  the  sheikh  aimed  at  appearing  in  all  things  a  true 
Bedouin  of  the  desert.  Fermal  Bey  sat  with  his  legs 
tucked  under  him.  He  affected  a  grave  demeanour,  but 
his  eyes  at  times  went  quickly  hither  and  thither.  The 
silence  began  to  jar  upon  him. 

'  Are  you  tired  ? '  asked  Djafar,  after  he  had  grunted 
his  satisfaction  several  times  running. 

'  Not  exactly,  but  .  .  .' 

'  I  will  show  you  to  your  room.' 

And  Djafar  stood  up  before  Fermal  Bey  had  even 
answered.  All  his  movements  were  quick  and  cat-like  ; 
but  at  the  same  time  so  energetic,  that  they  put  one 
in  mind  of  something  worked  on  an  ingenious  system 
of  powerful  springs. 

With  a  bow,  Fermal  Bey  returned  thanks  for  the 


130  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

meal  and  followed  his  guide.  He  realised  that  no 
conference  was  meant  to  be  held  that  night.  He 
had  performed  his  errand ;  the  long-expected  had 
come  to  pass.  Night  would  awake  in  the  old  man  the 
inspiration  which  might  perhaps  bring  the  war  to  a 
crisis. 

The  way  back  led  past  the  room  in  which  Sheikh 
Abdallah  was  enthroned  in  all  his  impassiveness. 
When  Fermal  Bey  stole  another  look  at  him,  it  was  to 
find  that  he  had  not  changed  his  position.  The 
scroll — probably  the  commentary  of  some  learned 
man  on  one  or  more  chapters  of  the  Koran — he  still 
held,  in  the  same  way.  His  eyes  were  steadily  raised 
to  the  ceiling. 

Djafar  led  his  guest  up  a  dark  flight  of  stairs  in  which 
a  few  bricks  had  long  been  missing,  and  conducted 
him  into  a  small  dusky  chamber.  With  a  wave  of  his 
hand  he  pointed  out  the  couch  against  a  wall,  and 
informed  his  companion  that  lamp  and  tinder-box 
stood  in  the  corner  with  a  water-cooled  tobacco-pipe. 

Fermal  Bey  thanked  him  for  his  courtesy. 

'  One  word,  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal/  said  he,  as  the 
former  turned  to  go.  '  Will  you  send  me  my  com- 
panion, Sergeant  Esjuk  ?  I  have  something  to  say  to 
him.' 

'  I  will  send  a  servant  to  the  inn  to  fetch  him.' 
And  Djafar  slipped  noiselessly  away  into  the  back- 
ground of  the  staircase. 

Fermal  Bey  called  a  parting  word  after  him  and 
received  a  friendly  response.  After  which  the  Turk 
gave  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

This  delay  between  resolution  and  action  exas- 
perated him.  Here,  surely,  if  anywhere,  haste  was 


THE  FANTASIA  131 

justified.  He  had  come  at  the  wrong  moment  .  .  . ; 
but,  after  all,  was  not  the  outbreak  of  the  war  reason 
enough  for  his  presence  ?  The  wedding  festivities  ? 
But,  then,  he  thought  impatiently,  the  affairs  of  the 
individual  must  give  way  to  ...  to  ...  how  was  he 
to  put  it  ?  Well,  then,  if  it  were  a  question  of  the '  to  be 
or  not  to  be '  of  Islam,  the  most  fitting  place  for  that 
struggle  was  here  among  the  Bedouins.  Fermal 
Bey  smiled  ambiguously.  Doubt,  contempt,  fear,  hope, 
dejection  and  impatience  were  all  expressed  in  that 
smile  of  his.  Then  he  once  more  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
lighted  the  tobacco-pipe,  and  sat  himself  down  to 
wait. 

After  a  while  a  firm  step  was  heard  on  the  stairs, 
whereupon  a  shadow  emerged  out  of  the  darkness 
by  the  doorway.  Sergeant  Esjuk  strode  into  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  struck  his  heels  together. 

'  Well,  sergeant,  what  have  you  to  say  ?  '  asked 
the  captain,  after  he  had  returned  the  greeting  with 
a  nod. 

'  The  business  is  clinched.' 

'  What !  .  .  .  what  is  that  you  say  ?  '  And  Fermal 
Bey  leaped  to  his  feet  at  once. 

'  The  sheikh  dares  not  say  anything  but  "  Yes  ".' 

'  Are  you  sure  of  your  facts,  sergeant  ?  ' 

'  Yes.  The  sheikh's  servants  are  one  and  all 
about  their  business  in  the  town.  They  turn  up  all  over 
the  place  and  talk  to  everyone.'  The  sergeant  broke 
off  with  a  short  laugh,  and  then  continued  :  '  Here, 
inland,  they  do  not  exactly  ask  what  is  stirring  on  the 
coast.  The  road  is  long  and  toilsome.  But,  that  the 
Infidels — may  the  hand  of  Allah  press  them  down — 
should  attack  the  children  of  the  Prophet  without  a 

K  2 


132  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

declaration  of  war,  out  of  sheer  greediness  and  nothing 
else,  that  cries  aloud  for  vengeance.' 

'  And  how  .  .  .  ?  ' 

'  Now,  all  have  a  mind  to  be  avengers.' 

Fermal  Bey  scanned  the  tall,  bony  figure  in  the 
worn-out,  soiled  uniform.  He  had  been  given  a 
treasure  of  an  assistant. 

'  And  the  sheikh  ?  '  asked  the  sergeant,  forgetting 
in  his  zeal  the  respect  due  to  his  superior. 

'  He  will  not  give  his  answer  before  to-morrow 
afternoon.' 

'  Between  now  and  then  he  will  learn  what  people 
are  thinking.'  Again  the  sergeant  gave  his  short, 
dry  laugh.  He  was  clearly  sure  of  his  ground. 

The  captain  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  His  thoughts 
now  took  another  turn,  and  he  looked  forward  with 
confidence  to  the  coming  day. 

'  Have  you  had  a  word  with  the  son  Djafar  ?  He 
is  a  sly  dog  and  his  influence,  I  fear,  is  greater  than 
his  father's.  As  for  the  second  son,  the  youth  who  is 
going  to  get  married  .  .  .  bah  ! '  And  Esjuk  gave  a 
contemptuous  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

'  The  same  thought  has  occurred  to  me  as  well, 
more  or  less.' 

The  sergeant  nodded. 

'  Young  Mansur,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  does 
not  count.  But  the  other,  do  not  lose  sight  of  him, 
captain.  The  sheikh  has  several  wives,  Djafar  being 
by  the  first.  And  although  the  sheikh  had  bound 
himself  not  to  marry  any  more  so  long  as  they  lived,  he 
yet  took  another  wife  a  few  years  later.  His  first  wife 
— Djazira  was  her  name — came  from  the  desert.  With 
her  son  Djafar  she  fled  to  her  clan.  A  Bedouin  woman 


THE  FANTASIA  133 

never  forgives  a  broken  promise.  There  she  stayed. 
The  tribe  is  powerful,  her  father  having  a  great  number 
of  camels  and  horses  and  great  droves  of  cattle.  Sheikh 
Abdallah  behaved  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  He 
is  not  only  a  pious  man,  he  is  also  a  prudent  one. 
Djafar,  fifteen  years  after  his  mother's  flight — she  is 
still  alive — returned  to  his  father  and  claimed  his  rights 
as  the  eldest  son.  He  has  not  got  them  yet,  but  here  he 
still  remains.  Djafar  is  a  man  who  must  be  won  over.' 

'  You  know  a  great  deal,  Esjuk.' 

'  We  Bedouins,'  replied  the  sergeant,  raising  his 
head  with  pride  as  he  alluded  to  his  extraction,  '  had 
rather  be  silent  than  speak.  But  when  we  do  speak,  we 
speak  out.' 

'  I  will  not  forget  what  you  say.' 

The  sergeant  nodded. 

'  Many  hundred — perhaps  a  thousand — Bedouins,' 
he  continued,  '  have  come  together  on  purpose  to 
witness  the  fantasia  to-morrow.  The  tribe  of  Ibn 
Hamkal  has  always  been  famous  for  its  liberality.  I 
have  already  had  speech  with  some  of  the  guests,  and 
if  you  will  let  me  go  now,  I  can  have  a  word  with  a 
good  many  more.' 

Fermal  Bey  smiled  approvingly  on  the  keen  sergeant. 
When  he  set  out  to  enlist  recruits  among  the  tribes 
of  the  south,  he  had  asked  that  Esjuk  might  be  his 
companion.  The  man  was  not  only  a  native  of  those 
parts  and  therefore  better  fitted  than  the  Turk  from, 
beyond  the  sea  to  win  confidence,  but  he  also  possessed 
that  patient  perseverance  which,  in  the  long  run, 
reaches  the  goal.  The  captain  took  a  handful  of 
tobacco  out  of  the  box  by  the  big  pipe  and  gave  it 
to  the  sergeant. 


134  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  I  can  tell  you  this,  sir/  exclaimed  the  latter  with 
a  grin  of  satisfaction, '  we  came  at  a  seasonable  hour 
for  ourselves.'  Then  he  took  the  tobacco. 

'  And  at  a  seasonable  one  for  us  as  well,'  rang  out 
Djafar's  voice  from  the  darkness  of  the  doorway. 

Fermal  Bey  involuntarily  clenched  his  hands. 
Had  Djafar  been  listening  or  .  .  .  ? 

Djafar  divined  his  thoughts,  and  said  : 

'  I  was  just  coming  upstairs  to  ask  if  my  guest 
had  everything  he  wanted.  You  speak  very  loud, 
sergeant,  and  I  have  quick  ears.  Pardon  me  if  I  have 
disturbed  an  important  interview.'  He  spoke  quite 
simply  ;  but  Fermal  Bey  still  thought  he  could  detect 
a  slight  sneer  hi  the  words.  '  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  ' 
r  '  Thank  you  .  .  .  humph  !  ' 

^  '  You  have  let  your  pipe  go  out ;  don't  you  want  to 
smoke  ?  The  air  is  close  ;  perhaps  a  cool  drink  ? '  Even 
before  Fermal  Bey  could  frame  an  answer  Djafar 
clapped  his  hands  together. 

A  dark  figure  emerged  from  the  staircase. 

'  Mechuel !    refreshments.' 

Again  the  man  disappeared  ;  he  had  clearly  been 
standing  outside  the  door,  and  the  captain  asked 
himself  for  how  long. 

'  Mechuel  is  my  friend  and  obedient  servant/ 
explained  Djafar  in  a  tone  of  assumed  indifference. 
'  He  is  a  Jew  by  birth,  and  long  professed  the  objection- 
able doctrines  of  his  people.  But  four  years  ago  he 
forswore  his  delusion,  and  ever  since  has  been  a 
zealous  servant  of  the  Prophet.  Perhaps  this  joyful 
occurrence  has  come  to  your  knowledge  before  now  ?  * 

'  Oh,  now  I  do  remember ! '  cried  Sergeant 
Esjuk. 


THE  FANTASIA  135 

'  Good.     But  I  did  not  ask  you.' 

The  sergeant  took  no  notice  of  the  haughty  tone ; 
all  he  did  was  to  blink  his  eyes  humorously.  Fermal 
Bey  took  this  as  a  hint  to  be  on  his  guard.  He  set  his 
subordinate's  mind  at  rest  with  a  smile. 

'  Is  he  to  remain  here  ?  '  asked  Djafar,  who  had 
noticed  their  by-play. 

'  Have  you  any  objection  ?  '  parried  Fermal  Bey, 
whilst  he  privately  asked  himself  how  much  of  the 
conversation  the  Arab  had  overheard. 

'  No,  he  is  to  go/  replied  Sergeant  Esjuk  in  the 
place  of  his  superior.  He  too  had  drawn  his  own 
conclusion  from  Djafar's  sudden  entrance. 

'  In  that  case  you  had  better  go  straight  to  Juaian. 
Not  long  ago  fifty  Bedouins  at  least  encamped  there 
from  the  region  of  El  Mur  and  Ufana.  The  report 
of  the  fantasia  had  spread  even  to  them.  For  a  whole 
day  and  a  whole  night  they  rode  without  stopping. 
You  will  perhaps  find  friends  among  them.' 

'  From  El  Mur,  did  you  say  ?  It  is  more  than 
twenty  years  ago  since  I  left  home,  but  among  fifty 
men  of  El  Mur  there  will  surely  be  a  kinsman  of  Esjuk 
Bu  Said.  Thank  you  for  the  information.'  The 
sergeant  struck  his  heels  together  and  raised  his  right 
hand  to  his  fez,  saying  :  '  Captain  !  ' 

'  For  the  present,  sergeant.' 

Another  moment  and  Esjuk  Bu  Said  was  hurrying 
downstairs. 

'  Your  servant  knows  how  to  bestir  himself.' 

'  He  is  my  comrade,  not  my  servant.' 

'  And  yet  must  obey  all  your  orders  ?  ' 

'  He  is  of  lower  rank  than  myself.'  And,  as  if  to 
put  a  stop  to  further  questions  in  the  matter,  Fermal 


i36  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Bey  added  :    '  The  reason  is  that  I  had    a    better 
education  than  he  has  had.' 

'  Education,  that  is  the  main  point.'  And  Djafar 
nodded  gravely  and  said  half  to  himself :  '  Knowledge, 
that  is  all.'  Then,  raising  his  voice,  he  went  on  talking, 
once  more  the  obliging  host,  who  thinks  of  nothing 
but  his  guest's  well-being  :  '  Have  you  any  objection  if 
I  ask  you  a  few  questions  ?  ' 

'  I  came  here  for  no  other  reason  than  to  answer 
as  many  as  possible.' 

'  Good.  I  wish  to  have  a  chat  with  you,  for  I  want 
to  know  a  great  deal.  First,  I  wonder  if  what  you 
know  is  better  worth  knowing  than  what  I  know 
already.' 

Fermal  Bey  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  man  before 
him.  Undeniably,  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal  was  beginning 
almost  to  awe  him. 

'  I  am  at  your  service/  he  answered  readily. 
\ '  Even  if  I  meant  to  bother  you  the  whole  night 
long  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  as  long  as  .  .  .' 

'  My  questions  would  have  no  end  in  many  nights  ; 
you  settle  the  answers  yourself.' 

Fermal  Bey  assented  with  a  nod. 

Djafar  went  to  the  door  and  called  downstairs  : 

'  Are  you  there,  Mechuel  ?  ' 

'  I  am  coming,  Sidi  Djafar.' 

Whilst  the  Jew  was  carrying  in  a  low  table  on  which 
stood  a  large  bowl  and  some  cigarettes,  Fermal  Bey 
found  occasion  to  study  the  fellow.  His  appearance, 
in  no  way  improved  by  the  loss  of  an  eye,  pleased  him 
not.  His  movements  were  under  control,  but  the 
Turk  could  not  help  thinking  of  a  wild  beast  in  a  cage. 


THE  FANTASIA  137 

He  told  himself  that  he  would  not  like  to  meet  Mechuel 
on  a  lonely  road — not  at  any  rate  without  a  loaded 
revolver  in  his  hand. 

'  On  the  balcony  ?  '  asked  Djafar,  politely. 

Fermal  Bey  made  an  affirmative  gesture,  leaving 
his  host  to  make  what  arrangements  he  liked. 

Mechuel,  who  either  could  understand  his  master 
without  words  or  else  had  received  his  orders  before- 
hand, carried  the  table  out  on  the  balcony ;  in  next 
to  no  time  he  had  arranged  two  cushions  and  then 
stood  waiting  at  the  door. 

'  Do  you  mind  Mechuel's  sitting  down  on  the 
stairs  ?  '  asked  Djafar.  '  In  that  way  he  will  keep  off 
uninvited  listeners  and  learn  as  well  himself.' 

'  As  you  please.' 

'  Then  sit  down  on  the  stairs,  Mechuel.  Listen 
and  learn  ! ' 

Djafar's  confidential  man  glided  noiselessly  out 
of  the  room. 

'  He  is  a  faithful  servant,'  explained  the  host, 
adding  with  a  shrug  :  '  for  he  knows  that  I  hold  his 
life  in  my  hands.' 

Curious  as  to  what  was  to  happen,  Fermal  Bey 
took  a  seat  at  the  table. 

'  I  overheard  a  part  of  your  conversation  with 
your  comrade  the  sergeant.'  When  at  this  frank 
and  unexpected  avowal  the  captain  turned  quickly  to 
him,  Djafar  continued  with  lofty  composure :  '  I 
came  to  beg  you  to  grant  me  this  interview.  I  was, 
perhaps,  somewhat  too  eager,  which  explains  that  I 
forgot  all  about  Esjuk  Bu  Said.  What  he  said  about 
me  is  true.  His  words,  that  you  came  at  a  seasonable 
hour  for  yourself,  are  also  correct.  For  that  very 


138  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

reason  our  interview  must  not  in  the  meantime  turn 
on  that.  I  want  to  talk  about  the  world.  What  do 
you  know  of  it  ?  ' 

'Of  ...  what  do  you  mean,  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal  ?  ' 

'  I  want  to  know  how  Europe,  which  is  next  to 
the  smallest  continent  and  whose  peoples  have  fallen 
out  with  one  another,  can  nevertheless  ill-treat  and 
grind  down  not  merely  individual  nations,  but  whole 
races  as  well.  Can  you  explain  that  to  me  ?  ' 

'  Humph  !  Civilisation  ...  I  scarcely  know  what 
to  answer  you.' 

'  I  ask  for  thoughts,  and  you  give  me  a  name, 
"  Civilisation,"  as  if  I,  too,  had  not  turned  the  word 
over  and  over  with  my  tongue.  It  has  a  vile  taste  and 
I  spit  it  out  again.  Civilisation  is  your  answer.  When 
the  Italian  ironclads  cast  anchor  outside  the  roadstead 
off  Tripoli,  civilisation  ordered  that  the  Turkish 
garrison  should  leave  the  town  without  striking  a 
blow.  But  it  in  no  way  prevented  the  Italians  from 
shooting  its  houses  in  pieces  with  their  cannons,  or 
from  slaying  the  people  to  whom  the  houses  belonged, 
if  any  were  still  there.  I  have  a  feeling  of  nausea 
every  time  my  ears  hear  the  word  "  civilisation."  What 
I  know  of  it  is,  that  it  bestows  excellent  weapons  on  the 
Unbelievers,  together  with  the  power  of  making  the 
most  reckless  use  of  them,  whenever  there  is  anything 
to  be  gained.  To  make  my  meaning  clearer  to  you 
I  will  tell  you  something  of  my  thoughts  and  hopes. 
This  war  is  as  seasonable  to  some  as  it  is  unseasonable 
to  as  many  others.  To  me  it  can  be  of  use.  But 
enough  of  that.  This  war  is  waged  by  the  Italians, 
but  with  the  consent  of  Europe.  Its  motives  are 
vanity,  jealousy,  and  greed.' 


THE  FANTASIA  139 

Fermal  Bey  made  a  sign  as  if  he  wished  to 
say  a  word,  but  Djafar  took  no  notice,  and  quietly 
continued  : 

'  For  all  their  disunion  the  Europeans  are  not  afraid 
of  acting  all  the  world  over  in  the  same  fashion.  Civili- 
sation has  never  stood  in  the  way  of  their  slaying  and 
plundering.  It  is  in  every  respect  a  boon  for  them, 
but  in  most  cases  an  evil  for  others.  The  good  it 
bestows — namely,  the  quick-firing  guns  and  far-reach- 
ing rifles — we  can  turn  to  our  own  use.  Whether  we 
like  it  or  not,  we  must  take  that  course.  The  nations 
of  Europe  cannot  ask  us  to  treat  them  otherwise  than 
they  are  treating  us.  Not  long  ago,  a  people,  the 
Japanese,  joined  the  ranks  of  the  civilised  Powers. 
A  great  war  was  the  stepping-stone.  They  had  no 
sooner  triumphed  over  their  enemy  and  yours,  than 
nations  who  had  hitherto  looked  down  upon  them  hailed 
them  as  brothers.  Do  you  see  now  what  I  am  driving 
at  ?  Very  well,  then  !  The  sons  of  the  Prophet  out- 
number the  Europeans.  They  alone  inhabit  North  and 
Central  Africa,  and  in  Asia  they  are  everywhere  to  be 
found.  Chinamen  and  Japanese  will  realise  by  degrees 
that  their  interests  and  ours  are  one.  Europe  is 
driving  them  to  it  by  her  bund  presumption.  Well, 
we  belong,  you  know,  to  Europe — at  any  rate,  you 
Turks  belong.  Keep  the  gates  open,  and  arms  shall  not 
be  wanting.  Get  us  weapons  and  also  men  to  teach 
us  how  to  use  them — that  is  your  job.  You  have  let 
much  time  slip  by,  but  it  is  not  even  yet  too  late. 
Look  sharp  and  knot  the  threads  together  from  the 
shore  of  the  ocean  in  the  West  to  the  coast  of  the  seas 
in  the  remotest  East.  When  everything  is  ready  the 
storm  will  break  out  of  its  'own  accord.  There  is 


i4o  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

really  a  God,  Turk.  And  righteousness  is  no  empty 
word,  as  is  the  civilisation  of  the  Europeans  ! ' 

Fermal  Bey  shrank  away  from  the  prospect  un- 
folded by  this  visionary. 

'  Not  a  word  to  me  of  the  difficulties,'  resumed 
Djafar  passionately,  as  if  he  had  divined  his  listener's 
thoughts.  '  We  are  being  inexorably  compelled  to 
unite,  our  own  safety  requires  no  less.  Europe  is 
saving  us  the  greatest  part  of  the  work.  This  war,  I 
tell  you,  comes  at  the  right  time  for  us.  Whether 
the  Italians  are  victorious  or  not  is  of  no  importance, 
but  their  aggression  has  opened  the  eyes  of  thousands 
who  were  formerly  asleep.  Cannot  you  hear  the  roar 
that  heralds  the  storm  ?  Behold,  that  is  how  Europe 
is  acting,  who  boasts  of  her  civilisation  and  a  higher 
culture.  In  the  midst  of  peace,  one  of  her  Powers,  with 
the  approval  of  the  others,  is  attacking  her  Turkish 
neighbour — and  that  is  Europe  !  ' 

'  You  are  right,  and  then  again  you  are  wrong.' 

Djafar  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  then  burst  out 
again,  without  allowing  himself  to  be  upset  by  the 
objection. 

'  And  why  ?  I  have  told  you  that  already.  For 
the  time  being,  the  number  of  those  who  have  rubbed 
the  sleep  out  of  their  eyes  is  still  small ;  but  to-morrow 
another  European  Power  will  do  what  Italy  has  been 
doing  here.  And  I  tell  you,  Turk,  that  as  I  think,  so 
think  many  in  Africa,  in  Asia  Minor,  in  India,  China, 
Japan — everywhere.  Europe  takes  care  that  the 
inducement  shall  nowhere  be  wanting.  Let  us  be 
grateful  to  the  peoples  of  Europe  and  say  with  me  : 
"  Their  will  be  done  !  "  ' 

The  passionate  vehemence  in  Djafar's  speech  had 


THE  FANTASIA  141 

swept  Fermal  Bey  along  with  it.  He  nodded  his  head 
and  his  eyes  flashed.  If  they  talked  like  that  on  the 
borders  of  the  desert,  verily,  the  cause  of  Islam  was 
not  lost. 

'  It  may  take  a  decade,  or  even  several  generations, 
before  the  struggle  begins,'  resumed  Djafar  once  more. 
'  But  what  does  that  matter  ?  Let  Europe  pave  the 
way,  let  the  civilised  nations  sow  their  dragons'  teeth. 
They  shall  also  reap.  Hatred  is  as  good  an  incentive 
as  greed.  Who  wins  the  day,  myself  or  my  sons, 
is  of  no  consequence.  The  day  will  be  ours.  Now  I 
have  told  you  something  of  my  thoughts.  It  is  now 
your  turn  to  talk.' 

Fermal  Bey's  eyes  were  fastened,  keen  and  search- 
ing, on  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal.  He  was  glad  to  have 
heard  this.  But  he  also  wondered  whether  it  was 
not  the  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness  which 
resounded  here.  And  his  thoughts  flew  to  the  count- 
less thousands  who  never  think. 

'  You  are  forgetting  one  thing,'  he  began  dejectedly. 

Djafar  leaned  over  the  table. 

'  You  mean  the  mollahs/  he  whispered.  '  I  have 
thought  of  them  too.  I  am  the  eldest  son  of  my 
father,  you  know,  and  am  one  day  to  be  a  marabout, 
even  as  he  is.  True,  the  state  declines  in  which  the 
priests  have  too  much  influence.  That  affects  Europe 
every  whit  as  much  as  it  affects  us.  Do  not 
forget  either  that  Islam  has  no  homeland.  The  whole 
world  belongs  to  it.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do. 
Tell  me  what  you  know  of  the  alliance  in  which  Ger- 
many, the  disinterested  friend  of  Turkey,  is  an  equally 
disinterested  ally  of  Italy,  the  enemy  of  Turkey.' 

Fermal  Bey  puffed  at  his  pipe,  and  thought  over 


I42  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

how  he  was  to  open  such  a  comprehensive  topic. 
Djafar's  imperious  character  had  completely  over- 
mastered him,  and  he  began  his  instruction  in  a  some- 
what hesitating  tone.  He  soon  warmed  to  his  subject, 
the  words  came  tripping  off  his  tongue,  and  the  thoughts 
begot  new  thoughts  in  unbroken  succession.  The 
Turkish  officer  had  never  before  divined  how  much 
insight  he  possessed  because  he  had  never  been  in  a 
situation  in  which  he  might  need  it.  Now  he  followed 
new  ideas  which  were  engendered  of  the  hour,  now 
he  developed  and  went  deep  into  problems  wherewith 
his  brain  till  then  had  never  busied  itself. 

Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal  sat  like  an  image  of  bronze. 
He  gave  vent  to  no  token  either  of  approbation  or  of 
contradiction.  But  the  speaker  never  lost  the  im- 
pression that  his  listener  allowed  no  word  to  escape 
him.  And  as  soon  as  the  subject  was  exhausted  and 
Fermal  Bey  silent,  Djafar  immediately  put  in  a  question 
which  turned  the  conversation  into  a  new  channel. 

Hours  wore  away,  but  the  Turk  never  once  felt 
tired.  What  he  called  his  victory  was  in  the  balance. 
And  whilst  he  was  talking  of  the  possibility  of  the 
great  European  war  whereof  the  foes  of  Europe  dreamed, 
he  thought  only  of  what  had  brought  him  to  Tripoli 
and  thence  to  the  outskirts  of  the  wilderness. 

The  impenetrable  darkness  of  the  night  wrapped 
itself  more  and  more  round  the  two  men.  Above 
them  was  arched  the  starry  sky  of  Africa.  There  was 
not  a  breath  of  wind.  Out  of  an  invisible  garden 
there  stole  a  faint  scent  of  the  last  roses  of  autumn. 

Fermal  Bey  went  on  talking.  His  words  fell  fast, 
the  thoughts  waxed  warm.  And  yet  to  him  they 
seemed  sluggish  and  half-hearted  in  comparison  with 


THE  FANTASIA  143 

that  thrilling  and  tremendous  prospect  which  Djafar's 
speech  had  just  called  forth.  With  an  almost  visionary 
acuteness  he  showed  his  hearers  the  different  links 
in  the  unending  chain  of  fate — a  chain  which,  some- 
where or  other  in  the  far  distance,  was  being  forged  by 
human  infatuation  and  human  malice  for  the  purpose 
of  putting  the  world  in  fetters. 

He  was  then  interrupted  by  Djafar,  who  turned 
his  head  to  the  staircase. 

'  Mechuel,  listen  and  bear  it  in  mind.' 

'  I  am  listening,  and  will  bear  it  in  mind/  replied  a 
hollow  voice  like  an  echo  out  of  remote  depths. 

It  made  Fermal  Bey's  flesh  creep.  He  reluctantly 
met  Djafar's  eyes,  burning  like  two  live  embers  out 
of  the  darkness.  There  was  something  at  once 
thrilling  and  fascinating  in  the  Bedouin's  passionate 
longing  to  shape  an  uncertain  future  in  accordance 
with  his  own  wishes.  On  a  sudden  the  Turk  felt 
himself  almost  hostile  towards  him,  and  for  one 
moment  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  were  sharing  the 
feelings,  the  thoughts,  and  the  interests  of  the  enemy. 
His  uneasiness  growing,  he  turned  away  and  looked 
up  at  the  stars. 

'  The  night  is  far  spent,'  he  said  in  curt  dismissal. 

'  Yes,  it  will  soon  be  one  with  the  past.  Does 
it  not  gladden  you  that  this  hour  is  leading  us  nearer 
the  goal  ? ' 

As  Fermal  Bey  did  not  answer  at  once,  Djafar 
began  again. 

'  Pray  to  Allah  that  he  may  darken  the  under- 
standing of  our  enemies  and  cause  the  great  war  to 
break  out  among  them.' 

Directly  after  he  stood   up  and  was  again  the 


144  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

attentive  host  with  no  other  thought  than  to  see  to 
the  comfort  of  his  guest. 

'  You  are  tired  and  would  like  to  sleep.  Forgive 
me  for  keeping  you  up.' 

He  went  to  the  balustrade  of  the  balcony  and 
gazed  up  to  the  stars,  that  were  fading  out  before  the 
first  faint  grey  of  dawn.  '  Look,  the  sun  is  now 
rising.  A  new  day  is  dawning.  Perhaps  it  will  be  ours.' 

Fermal  Bey  had  likewise  stood  up.  He  felt  a 
heavy  weariness  in  every  limb.  At  the  same  time  he 
was  irritable  from  the  interminable  interview,  and 
his  mind  was  a  blank.  He  gazed  down  below. 

The  small  town,  if  such  the  cluster  of  white  buildings 
could  be  called,  looked  as  unreal  as  a  dream.  In  the 
twilight  of  the  struggle  between  day  and  night  every 
contour  was  blotted  out.  One  house  was  merged  in 
the  next,  the  tiny  gardens  all  blended  together,  and 
the  thoroughfare  winding  through  the  hamlet  was  a 
dried-up  river-bed. 

The  observer  raised  his  head  and  looked  to  the 
east.  His  sight  was  lost  in  haze  veiling  the  boundless 
distance.  Grey  ringed  with  grey,  with  a  faint  touch 
of  blue  on  the  undermost  rim.  And  then  all  on  a 
sudden  a  sparkling  arose,  as  if  the  glow  of  some 
invisible  fire  had  flung  up  to  heaven  a  few  sullen 
sparks.  Directly  after  it  was  light.  Somewhere  or 
other  the  fire  began  to  blaze.  Like  a  fiery  sword  its 
rays  clove  darkness  and  mist,  swept  them  away, 
blotting  out  what  had  been.  The  day  broke. 

'  As  Sergeant  Esjuk  said,  you  came  at  a  seasonable 
time,'  murmured  Djafar's  voice  in  his  ear.  '  I  want 
to  know  what  war  is.  There  are  many  people  down 
there  who  are  longing  for  it  to  come  for  its  own  sake.' 


THE  FANTASIA  145 

'  And  your  father  ?  '  asked  Fermal  Bey,  absent- 
mindedly. 

Djafar  walked  slowly  across  the  balcony.  At  the 
doorway  he  stopped. 

'  No  one  of  the  tribe  of  Ibn  Hamkal  was  ever 
afraid  of  the  fight.  My  father  is  a  brave  man  and 
an  honourable  marabout.  When  he  hears  to-day 
that  most  of  those  present  have  a  mind  to  fight,  he 
will  be  of  the  same  mind  as  themselves.' 

'  So  that  is  settled.  You  fill  me  with  pride  and 
gladness,  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal.  The  sons  of  the  Prophet 
have  both  faith  and  confidence  .  .  .' 

Djafar  interrupted  him,  saying  with  an  unmis- 
takable sneer : 

'  The  will  of  Allah  is  always  to  do  what  the  Faithful 
wish,  the  reason  being,  I  suppose,  because  they  are 
really  faithful  to  Him  still.  Farewell ! ' 

He  withdrew  with  the  springy,  supple  gait  which 
Fermal  Bey  had  before  admired. 

The  Turk  shrugged  his  shoulders.  This  Bedouin, 
who  was  one  day  to  inherit  his  father's  power  and 
dignity,  was  unintelligible  to  him,  but  he  saw  clearly 
that  it  was  to  his  own  advantage  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  him.  He  lifted  up  his  arms  to  heaven  as  if 
registering  a  vow. 

All  around  everything  was  inundated  with  the 
light  of  the  early  day.  In  the  street  a  few  lean  dogs 
were  nosing  in  the  refuse  heaps.  On  its  farther  side, 
from  behind  the  row  of  houses,  a  date-palm  or  two 
stood  out  against  the  light  background.  Then,  on  a 
sudden,  there  rang  out  from  below  the  regular  beat 
of  a  firm  step. 

'  Captain,  captain  ! '  And  Sergeant  Esjuk  came  in 


I46  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

sight,  holding  a  Bedouin  youth  confidentially  by  the 
arm.  He  had  caught  sight  of  his  superior  officer  from 
afar,  and  was  now  hurrying  towards  him.  '  My 
sister's  eldest  son.  I  have  never  seen  him  before. 
His  liver  is  swelling  with  wrath  against  the  Infidels.' 

Fermal  Bey  glanced  down  at  the  sergeant  and  his 
companion,  and  then  his  eyes  ranged  once  more  over 
the  countryside.  The  walls  of  the  tiny  houses,  a 
moment  ago  so  mean,  shone  a  dazzling  white,  the  palm- 
trees  rocked  softly  in  the  morning  breeze,  the  street 
was  bathed  in  sunshine.  His  thoughts  flew  to  the 
man  with  whom  he  had  just  conferred.  If  there  were 
many  more  like  him  and  the  youth  down  there,  the 
war  was  far  from  being  lost. 

The  sergeant  then  raised  his  strong  voice  : 
'  The  men  of  El  Mur  will  follow  us  to  a  man.     I 
have  enlisted  them.    Their  hearts  are  burning  with 
the  lust  of  battle.' 

On  the  plain  at  the  east  end  of  the  town  a  few 
thousand  people  were  gathered  together.  The 
Bedouins  in  their  white  burnous  stood  stiff  and  im- 
passive, the  women  and  children  sat  round  the  head 
of  the  family,  waiting  patiently.  Not  a  murmur 
until  Sheikh  Abdallah,  with  Mansur  and  his  father- 
in-law  the  old  Mabrouk  es  Serir,  drew  near,  when  a 
suppressed  hum  was  heard.  The  fantasia  would  soon 
begin. 

Sheikh  Abdallah  strode  upright  and  proud  through 
the  crowd,  which  eagerly  made  room  for  him.  When 
he  reached  the  right-hand  side  of  the  oblong  space, 
left  open  for  the  games,  he  stopped,  Mansur  taking  a 
position  on  his  left  and  Sheikh  Mabrouk  the  place  of 


THE  FANTASIA  147 

honour  on  his  right.  Fermal  Bey  came  up  in  silence 
and  remained  standing  by  Mansur.  The  young  bride- 
groom could  scarcely  hide  his  satisfaction.  It  was  on 
his  account  that  this  festival  was  being  held.  Djafar's 
wedding  four  years  before  had  passed  off  in  the  strictest 
privacy.  Even  if  his  father  had  not  said  a  word,  what 
plainer  hint  could  be  given  than  the  comparison  which 
was  challenged  by  everything  he  saw.  What  if  the 
inheritance  should  one  day  be  divided.  .  .  . 

From  the  short  northern  side  of  the  grounds  came 
a  muffled  roll  of  drums,  resembling  a  low  rumbling 
and  scorning  all  semblance  of  time. 

The  spectators  craned  their  necks  and  looked  to 
the  north. 

The  roll  growing  louder  and  louder  culminated  in 
an  impassioned  flourish  which  fired  the  blood,  where- 
upon it  slowly  decreased  in  volume  again.  When  it 
had  died  down  to  its  former  monotonous  rumble,  a 
motley  procession  hove  in  sight  and  wended  its  way 
towards  the  centre  of  the  quadrangle. 

First  came  a  small,  squat  man  carrying  a  tremen- 
dous drum  on  a  strap  round  his  neck.  With  two 
wooden  drumsticks  which  he  held  in  the  middle,  he  kept 
on  belabouring  both  sides  of  the  big  drum.  The  result 
was  a  roll  that  never  ceased,  sometimes  sinking  to  a 
plaintive  moan,  sometimes  rising  to  a  frenzied  roar, 
only  to  slacken  down  again  to  a  hollow  and  mono- 
tonous growl.  Behind  the  big  drum  came  four  men, 
each  with  a  smaller  one.  Each  held  his  drum  pressed 
against  his  body  with  the  left  arm,  while  his  right 
fist  beat  unceasingly  on  the  tight  skin  of  the  side 
turned  uppermost.  Off  and  on,  the  blows  would 
rain  thick  and  fast,  whereupon  they  would  fall  more 

L   2 


148  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

gently  and  with  long  pauses  in  between.  Every  now 
and  then,  too,  the  four  men  would  scratch  the  skin  with 
their  nails,  and  when  that  happened  a  nerve-racking 
sensation  would  creep  over  the  spectators.  Behind 
the  drummers  came  a  lank  Soudanese,  who  made  as 
much  din  with  a  small  tambourine  as  all  the  others 
put  together. 

With  swift,  jerky  steps  the  band  drew  nearer. 

When  it  was  within  ten  paces  of  the  two  sheikhs, 
Zared,  the  man  with  the  big  drum,  turned  his  first 
somersault.  Thenceforward  one  somersault  followed 
the  other  in  an  unbroken  series,  without  his  ever 
ceasing  even  for  a  single  second  to  belabour  the 
sides  of  his  drum.  Clouds  of  dust  whirled  round 
him,  the  sweat  ran  down  his  swarthy  countenance, 
but  still  he  revolved  tirelessly  round  the  gigantic  drum, 
while  the  four  men  behind  him  pommelled  the  taut 
skin  of  their  tom-toms  with  their  fists  ;  the  blows 
pattered  down  like  a  shower  of  hail,  and  the  uproar 
increased  to  a  frantic  delirium. 

The  Soudanese  smiled  blissfully  over  the  din  that 
he  and  his  companions  were  making.  The  tambourine 
crashed  against  his  forehead,  against  his  left  elbow, 
against  his  knee-caps,  and  with  it  all  the  knuckles  of 
his  left  hand  found  time  to  add  to  the  pandemonium. 

There  was  something  in  this  irregular  music  which 
was  at  once  stimulating  and  depressing.  The  listeners, 
particularly  the  women  and  children,  laughed  out 
loud  with  delight,  while  the  men's  bearing  grew  prouder. 
Their  eyes  sparkled  and  their  lips  shot  up  at  the 
corners.  Zared,  the  drummer  of  the  tribe  of  Beni 
Hamka,  was  famous  far  and  wide  for  his  skill,  but 
to-day  he  excelled  himself.- 


THE  FANTASIA  149 

The  old  Sheikh  Mabrouk  turned  to  his  neighbour 
with  an  appreciative  smile.  But  Sheikh  Abdallah 
neither  stirred  nor  noticed  it.  His  eyes  lost  their 
way  in  unbounded  distances  ;  he  was  deaf  to  the  noise 
that  raged  around  him. 

The  musicians  had  passed  by  the  sheikhs,  then  the 
drumming  slackened.  Soon  the  sound  changed  to  a 
monotonous  murmur  which,  as  soon  as  the  hearers 
had  got  used  to  it,  produced  but  a  soporific  effect. 
Fermal  Bey,  who  had  been  present  at  a  fantasia  on 
a  former  occasion,  found  comfort  in  these  subdued  and 
muffled  tones  after  the  almost  volcanic  outbreak 
shortly  before.  Only  the  Soudanese  laughed  and 
showed  his  white  teeth.  Over  and  over  again  he  hurled 
up  his  tambourine  into  the  air,  caught  it,  struck  a  few 
light  blows  against  his  elbow  and  then  flung  it  up  anew. 

A  short  interval  followed.  The  spectators  ex- 
changed meaning  glances ;  the  introduction  was 
promising.  Thereupon  a  few  camels  were  discovered 
on  the  slope  behind  the  standing-place  of  the  more  dis- 
tinguished guests.  The  largest  and  finest  of  these  ships 
of  the  desert  bore  a  canopy  of  motley  colours.  Under 
cover  of  its  gold-embroidered  draperies  the  bride  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  presumably  the  bridegroom's 
mother  as  well,  were  looking  on  at  the  entertainment. 
A  Bedouin  woman,  moreover,  was  telling  another, 
she  had  heard  that  Risja,  the  bride,  was  a  marvel  of 
beauty  and  grace. 

'  She  has  just  turned  fourteen/  added  the 
woman. 

Mansur,  who  had  perceived  the  arrival  of  the  camels, 
forced  his  way  through  the  crowd  of  sightseers  and 
stopped  by  the  magnificent  canopy. 


150  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  Lalla  Djilana,'  he  softly  cried  up  to  the  carefully 
closed  draperies,  '  art  thou  there  ?  ' 

'  My  son/  answered  his  mother's  voice  in  the  same 
low  tone. 

'  And  the  young  gazelle  is  waiting  at  thy  side  ?  ' 
continued  Mansur.  '  Tell  her,  my  heart  is  a  flaming 
fire.  My  lips  are  thirsting  for  hers,  my  eyes  .  .  .' 

'  She  will  be  thine  this  evening,'  broke  in  his  mother 
in  undertones.  '  When  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  town, 
the  yearning  of  thy  eyes  will  be  quieted.' 

'  It  is  half  a  day  from  now  to  evening,  and  my 
heart  is  burning  in  my  breast  like  a  fiery  ember.' 

Not  a  word  came  in  reply,  but  a  light-brown  hand, 
tiny  as  a  child's,  parted  the  curtains  of  the  canopy 
and  with  wide-spread  fingers  waved  a  greeting  to  her 
love-sick  bridegroom. 

Mansur  gazed  at  the  hand  as  if  bewitched.  Up  till 
then  that  was  all  he  had  seen  of  his  wife.  The  five 
slender  fingers,  that  opened  themselves  out  to  him  in 
welcome,  told  him  no  doubt  that  there  were  still 
another  five  hours  till  evening,  but  afterwards  .  .  . 

'  Oh,  Lalla,'  whispered  Mansur  in  bliss,  '  kiss  Risja 
for  thy  son,  her  husband.'  He  looked  up  to  the  canopy 
as  if  spellbound.  All  was  still  behind  the  folds,  the 
tiny  hand  had  vanished  again.  When  Mansur  looked 
round  him  in  bewilderment,  it  was  to  meet  only  the 
reproachful  and  astonished  eyes  of  the  camel  driver. 
Mansur  gave  a  quiet  smile  and  returned  to  his  place 
by  his  father.  Not  a  feature  of  the  latter  betrayed 
whether  he  had  noticed  his  son's  absence  or  not.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  seemed  to  Fermal  Bey,  who  was 
watching  everything  attentively,  as  though  Sheikh 
Mabrouk  shook  his  head  reprovingly. 


THE  FANTASIA  151 

The  drums,  which  had  kept  silent  for  a  time,  now 
boomed  out  again.  A  numerous  cavalcade  that  had 
assembled  pon  the  south  side  of  the  open  ground 
thundered  past.  The  white  burnous  and  the  long  gaily 
coloured  saddle-cloths  fluttered  in  the  wind.  A  few 
gun-shots  went  off  with  a  bang ;  now  and  then  a  cry  of 
applause  was  raised.  The  next  moment  the  riders  were 
past.  They  had  swept  by  like  a  hurricane,  and  had 
stirred  up  clouds  of  dust.  Even  before  they  were  gone, 
and  the  course  was  again  clear,  there  followed  in  their 
tracks  a  band  of  armed  foot.  Two  hundred  strong, 
they  marched  in  a  compact  mob,  without  the  slightest 
notion  of  soldierly  bearing  or  of  keeping  step.  But  the 
rifles  which  they  carried  in  their  hands,  on  their  shoulders 
or  slung  round  their  necks,  were  all  of  modern  make, 
and  their  cartridge-belts  seemed  to  be  well  filled. 
Chattering  and  talking,  the  men  walked  along  over  the 
playground,  waved  their  weapons  when  they  found 
themselves  in  front  of  Sheikh  Abdallah,  yelled  out 
a  few  hoarse  cheers,  far  more  like  clamorous  demands 
than  expressions  of  approval  and  affection,  and  then 
passed  on. 

Sheikh  Abdallah's  face  lost  its  far-away  expression, 
and  a  suggestion  of  a  smile  curled  his  lips.  He  had 
happened  upon  an  opportunity  of  giving  old  Mabrouk 
and  the  Turkish  officer  a  proof  that  the  tribe  controlled 
a  force  which  the  prudent  man  would  be  wise  to 
include  in  his  reckoning.  He  reared  himself  up  to  his 
lofty  stature  and,  somewhat  condescendingly,  whispered 
a  compliment  in  the  ear  of  his  right-hand  neighbour. 

'  Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Beni  Hamka  ?  '  replied 
old  Mabrouk.  '  Even  the  sand  whispers  the  name  of 
the  tribe,  and  the  palm-trees  for  many  miles  around 


152  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

know  not  another.  My  daughter  will  win  great 
happiness.'  He  breathed  a  sigh  and  continued  in  a 
scarcely  audible  undertone.  '  For,  of  course,  it  is  settled 
that  your  youngest  son  Mansur  shall  become  sheikh 
and  marabout  after  you  ?  ' 

Not  a  feature  changed  in  Sheikh  Abdallah's  face. 
He  spoke  low,  without  so  much  as  turning  his  head. 

'  God's  will  is  done  in  all  things.  My  resolution 
is  taken  in  the  night  of  Fate.' 

Sheikh  Mabrouk  understood  that  he  would  get 
no  plainer  hint.  He  was  an  ignorant  man,  little 
versed  in  the  Koran,  who  had  forced  his  way  up  step 
by  step  to  his  position  of  authority,  thanks  to  his 
wealth  alone.  But  he  knew  for  all  this,  that  all 
resolutions  taken  in  the  night  of  Fate  remain  imper- 
turbably  fixed.  Was  there  not  a  hint  of  this  in  the 
very  hour  ?  In  the  night  of  Fate  the  Koran  was  sent 
down  from  God's  throne  into  the  lowest  heaven. 
After  which,  the  archangel  Gabriel  brought  the  holy 
book  to  Mohammed,  and  revealed  the  first  part  to 
him.  Sheikh  Mabrouk  smiled  slyly  when  he  recalled 
the  pious  tradition.  He  had  made  good  provision 
for  his  youngest  daughter's  future. 

Sheikh  Abdallah  had  grown  an  inch  by  the  time 
he  had  shown  the  numerous  gathering  that  the  Beni 
Hamka  tribe  could  put  four  hundred  well-equipped 
horsemen  in  the  field,  as  well  as  half  that  number  of 
foot-soldiers.  He  glanced  behind  him  on  the  sly  to 
where  the  men  of  El  Mur  were  standing  shoulder  to 
shoulder.  Visibly  impressed,  their  veterans  with 
their  heads  together  were  talking  in  an  eager  whisper.. 
Again  the  drums  resounded.  It  was  the  signal 
for  the  races. 


THE  FANTASIA  153 

A  troop  of  horsemen  rushed  into  the  open  place ; 
at  their  very  heels  came  a  second',  to  be  overtaken  in 
their  turn  by  other  mounted  companies  in  uninter- 
rupted succession.  The  horses  were  stretched  out 
like  belts  along  the  ground,  the  riders  sat  huddled 
up  in  the  saddle,  so  as  to  impede  as  little  as  possible 
the  movements  of  their  steed.  Every  now  and  then 
a  lonely  rider  would  be  seen  tearing  along  the  course 
as  if  shot  from  a  gun.  Next  moment  at  least  twenty 
others  would  race  after  him  as  hard  as  they  could  go. 
There  ensued  an  indescribable  medley :  horses'  legs 
stretched  to  their  fullest  extent,  a  mass  of  human  limbs 
all  bobbing  up  and  down  or  wildly  gesticulating,  flutter- 
ing garments  and  weapons  blazing  like  lightning, 
all  seemed  entangled  together. 

Fermal  Bey  in  vain  endeavoured  to  decide  which 
of  the  riders  rode  the  best  or  which  of  the  horses  went 
the  fastest.  But  Mansur,  beside  him,  acclaimed  his 
favourite  every  now  and  then,  and  the  old  Sheikh 
Mabrouk,  who  had  a  sure  eye  where  horseflesh  was 
concerned,  would  nod  his  head  approvingly  from 
time  to  time. 

In  the  very  middle  of  a  race  the  contest  was,  as  it 
seemed,  interrupted  by  a  single  horseman  who  made 
straight  for  the  two  sheikhs  at  full  speed.  When 
directly  in  front  of  them  he  pulled  up  with  such  vio- 
lence that  he  forced  his  horse  on  its  haunches.  For  a 
second  or  two  the  animal  stood  bolt  upright,  tremb- 
ling in  every  limb,  while  its  rider  lay  close  on  its  neck, 
which  quivered  like  the  rippling  of  a  wave. 

'  Djafar,'  thought  Fermal  Bey,  scanning  the  rider's 
bronzed  face.  It  wore  a  furious  expression,  and 
through  the  half-closed  lids  the  black  eyes  smouldered 


154  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

with  hatred.     The  Turk  saw  that  something  would 
happen. 

At  a  call  from  Djafar,  the  thoroughbred,  seeming 
scarcely  to  skim  the  ground,  flew  far  out  on  the 
course,  and  then,  wheeling  round  on  itself  while 
still  in  its  stride,  came  rushing  back  again  like  the 
wind. 

And  this  time  Djafar  swung  a  sword  above  his 
head.  The  cuts  fell  to  right  and  left.  The  strength 
of  his  arm  seemed  to  grow  ten  times  stronger ;  the 
swiftness  wherewith  the  blows  and  thrusts  were  dealt 
was  past  belief.  The  blade  flashed  round  the  rider's  head 
like  the  rays  of  a  halo.  There  was  something  miracu- 
lous, all  but  terrifying,  in  this  scene.  Backwards  and 
forwards  flashed  the  lightly  built  thoroughbred  over 
the  course,  never  for  a  moment  flagging  in  its  pace,  a 
countless  number  of  times.  Suddenly  Djafar  snatched 
a  revolver  from  his  belt  with  his  bridle-hand,  and, 
raising  the  weapon  in  the  air,  fired  shot  after  shot. 
The  blade  still  swished  with  unabated  rapidity;  like 
a  gleaming  white  sun  it  encircled  him,  while  shot 
followed  shot  in  quick  succession,  and  the  horse,  like 
a  gigantic  bird  on  invisible  wings,  flew  over  the  sand. 
The  horseman  held  the  reins  in  his  mouth. 

On  the  south  side  of  the  racecourse  Zared  began 
beating  the  big  drum.  The  rest  of  the  musicians 
joined  in  at  once. 

Djafar's  silver-grey  steed  raced  once  more  up  to 
the  sheikhs.  Horse  and  man  were  one,  and  the  blade, 
everywhere  at  once,  clothed  them  both  in  an  armour 
of  steel.  The  shots  still  cracked  unceasingly.  As 
soon  as  one  revolver  was  empty  it  was  flung  on  the 
ground,  and  a  second  quickly  followed  it.  But  Djafar 


THE  FANTASIA  155 

had  already  taken  a  third  out  of  the  well-stocked 
arsenal  in  his  belt. 

The  racer  swept  past  the  sheikhs,  and  again  it 
took  in  its  stride  the  breakneck  turn  about,  which 
might  cost  horse  and  rider  their  lives. 

All  went  well,  and  back  careered  Djafar  amid  a 
hurricane  of  reports,  sword-cuts,  cheers,  and  frantic 
puffing  and  blowing. 

The  spectators  crowded  instinctively  nearer.  The 
men  of  El  Mur  roared  in  unmistakable  applause.  A 
few  women  uttered  shrill  cries  of  terror.  The  drums 
boomed  out  louder  than  ever,  the  tambourine  buzzed 
to  a  volley  of  blows. 

And  this  time  Djafar  stopped  in  front  of  the 
sheikhs.  He  flung  back  his  head,  whereupon  the 
silver-grey  at  once  reared  up  on  its  haunches.  Bending 
backwards,  in  an  almost  horizontal  position,  Djafar 
emptied  his  fourth  revolver,  while  the  sword  still 
flashed  like  lightning  under  the  horse  and  about  its 
head  and  tail. 

The  men  of  El  Mur  clean  forgot  their  host's  high 
rank.  A  few  gave  the  signal  to  cheer,  and  then  all  the 
others  joined  in.  And  from  then  onwards  there 
spread  round  the  whole  circle  a  roar  which  grew  ever 
louder  and  more  tempestuous.  This  last  feat  was 
something  more  than  mere  skill  in  horsemanship  or 
dexterity  in  the  use  of  arms  ;  it  showed  a  contempt  of 
death  which  far  surpassed  anything  that  was  usually 
seen  in  such  performances.  But  cries  of  warning 
were  raised  as  well. 

'  The  horse  will  tumble  backwards  !  Allah,  preserve 
the  foolhardy  fellow  !  ' 

The  steed  pawed  the  air.     Djafar,  deaf  and  blind 


156  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

to  all  else,  forced  it  into  a  crazy  dance  on  its  hind-legs. 
Not  until  he  had  fired  the  last  shot  and  flung  the  fourth 
revolver  away,  did  he  allow  the  silver-grey  to  stand  on 
all  fours.  Whereupon,  away  it  sped  again.  But  this 
time  the  sword  was  put  aside.  Instead,  Djafar  threw 
himself  across  his  horse's  side,  and  at  full  gallop  picked 
up  the  first  revolver.  The  three  others  were  recovered 
in  the  same  way.  Djafar  dangled  now  over  the  left 
side,  now  over  the  right.  His  skilled  hand  never  made 
a  mistake ;  his  quick  eye  always  judged  the  distance 
correctly.  The  ride  was  kept  up  at  the  same  giddy 
pace,  and  the  last  wheel  about  was  as  forcibly  done 
as  the  first. 

When  the  horse  stood  once  more  in  front  of  the 
sheikhs,  Djafar  leaned  forward  as  if  he  wanted  to 
whisper  something  in  its  ear.  Then  and  there,  before 
anyone  could  explain  how  it  had  come  about,  the 
silver-grey,  as  if  struck  by  a  bullet,  had  fallen  down 
and  lay  sprawling  on  the  ground.  But  Djafar  stood 
uninjured  near  it.  There  he  towered — after  he  had 
taken  a  leap  in  the  nick  of  time,  straight  as  a  lance, 
with  the  reins  in  his  bridle-hand. 

The  spectators  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  from  the 
row  of  tribesmen  of  El  Mur  there  rang  out  a  voice  full 
of  admiration  : 

'  All  hail,  son  of  the  desert !  With  our  eyes  we 
have  seen  you  can  lead  men  to  war.' 

Djafar  bowed  before  the  sheikhs,  as  if  it  were  in 
their  honour  alone  that  he  had  given  the  display  of 
horsemanship.  After  which,  he  dropped  the  reins  and 
went  quietly  to  his  father's  side.  He  stood  by  Fermal 
Bey,  who  felt  himself  bound  to  say  a  few  words  in 
appreciation. 


THE  FANTASIA  157 

'  I  have  seen  many  daring  exploits,  but  .  .  .' 

'  Away ! '  cried  Djafar,  without  listening  to 
him. 

The  silver-grey,  that  had  lain  as  if  dead,  jumped  on 
its  legs,  gave  itself  a  shake,  and  then  trotted  cheerfully 
off  the  scene  of  its  master's  triumph  and  its  own. 
Mechuel  took  it  in  charge  on  the  cross-side  of  the  course. 

Fermal  Bey  would  have  repeated  his  compliments, 
but  Djafar  interrupted  him. 

'  They  are  now  hankering  more  than  ever  for  the 
fight,'  he  whispered. 

At  that  the  Turkish  officer  became  serious.  He  had 
secretly  wondered  whether  Djafar  had  not  had  some 
other  motive  than  merely  to  show  off  his  mastery  on 
horseback.  He  stooped  forward  and  shot  a  curious 
glance  at  Sheikh  Abdallah.  His  host's  impassive 
features  revealed  nothing ;  but  Mansur  seemed  to  be 
dissatisfied.  He  was  whispering  eagerly  with  his  rear- 
rank  man,  and  looked  as  if  he  had  been  ordering  him 
to  fetch  him  a  horse.  When  the  man  declined,  he 
asked  Sheikh  Abdallah,  and  received  a  curt  refusal. 
Mansur  then  moved  round  and  gazed  helplessly  over 
to  the  canopy  on  the  slope  of  the  hill. 

Straightway  the  voice  again  rang  out  that  had 
a  while  ago  greeted  Djafar. 

'  Why,'  came  the  sneering  cry,  '  has  the  sheikh 
not  another  son  ?  ' 

Mansur  turned  again  to  his  father,  his  face  con- 
sumed with  anger.  Sheikh  Abdallah  smiled  loftily, 
and  merely  said  : 

'  The  abduction  of  the  bride  ! ' 

That  was  the  next  item  on  the  programme.  It 
forms  part  of  every  Arabian  fantasia,  and  represents 


158  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

how  a  bride  is  captured    on    her    journey    to    the 
expectant    bridegroom. 

And  immediately  after  the  drums  began  to  beat 
again,  and  a  couple  of  camels  sailed  into  the  open 
ground  with  a  rolling  gait.  At  least  twenty  men  on 
horseback  served  as  their  escort.  The  bearing  of  these 
horsemen  indicated  that  they  scented  some  danger,  or 
perhaps  some  sudden  attack.  And,  see,  they  had 
not  been  mistaken.  From  the  opposite  direction  there 
came  galloping  towards  them  a  band  of  twice  their 
numbers.  One  and  all  levelled  the  muzzles  of  their 
rifles  straight  at  the  desert  travellers ;  and  their  leader, 
in  a  rough  voice,  called  upon  them  to  deliver  into  their 
hands  the  young  bride  in  the  canopied  litter  on  the 
first  camel.  But  Arab  chivalry  forbade  the  mere 
thought  of  such  a  thing;  consequently  a  fight 
was  inevitable.  The  assailants  rushed  forward  in  a 
semicircle.  Their  battle-cry  was  raised,  and  their  guns 
were  fired  in  the  air  or  else  into  the  ground.  The 
defenders  rallied  round  the  camels  and  paid  the  aggres- 
sors back  in  the  same  coin.  For  one  minute  the 
scene  was  an  inextricable  hurly-burly  of  horses  lashing 
out  with  their  heels,  and  riders  splitting  the  air  with 
swords  that  glistened  like  silver,  and  threatening 
muzzles  pointing  in  every  direction.  The  white 
burnous,  all  awaving,  folded  themselves  round  arms 
and  legs  insanely  fighting  ;  and,  high  above  the  com- 
batants, rose  the  canopy,  bespangled  with  gold  and 
purple-coloured,  which  rocked  up  and  down  in  the 
storm  like  some  overgrown  and  magnificent  flower. 
The  tumult  waxed  fiercer.  The  assailants  pressed 
ever  closer  on  the  camels,  that  grew  restive  and  set 
up  an  ear-piercing  squeal.  The  battle-cries  were 


THE  FANTASIA  159 

raised  to  a  wilder  shout,  the  guns  banged  uninter- 
ruptedly. All  on  a  sudden  a  horseman  or  two  shook 
themselves  free  from  the  living  skein  and  rode  off 
in  headlong  flight.  The  assailants  gave  a  shout 
of  triumph.  The  defenders,  frightened  out  of  their 
wits,  pulled  their  horses  round  and  scattered  whence 
they  came.  The  camels  were  surrounded,  the  curtains 
of  the  canopy  torn  aside ;  a  veiled  woman  stood  in 
the  opening,  arrayed  in  a  silken  garment  embroidered 
in  gold  that  glistened  in  the  sunshine.  A  moment  she 
stood  where  she  was,  framed  in  the  purple  sheen  of  the 
canopy ;  then  she  slid  lightly  down  the  camel's  side,  and 
was  caught  up  by  a  stately  horseman  in  a  turban,  who 
set  her  across  his  saddle-bow  and,  giving  his  horse  its 
head,  was  off  and  away  with  his  booty.  But  the 
captured  bride  coiled  her  brown  arms  round  the  victor's 
neck  and  nestled  trustfully  to  his  breast.  It  was 
clear  to  all  that  this  was  the  right  man,  the  one  in 
whose  arms  she  had  longed  to  be.  A  shout  of  joy 
thundered  and  volleyed,  and  the  band  of  horsemen 
tore  after  their  leader  and  his  conquered  bride  in 
wild  career.  The  well-trained  camels,  that  at  other 
times  had  taken  part  in  such  spectacles,  swayed  along 
in  the  rear  at  their  own  sweet  will. 

The  spectators,  who  had  followed  the  scene  with 
breathless  interest,  gave  vent  to  their  delight  in  loud 
cheering.  Their  enthusiasm  had  been  aroused  as 
much  by  the  wasteful  expenditure  of  ammunition  as 
by  the  splendour  of  the  dresses  and  the  histrionic 
talent  of  the  actors.  But  soon  all  was  still  again  in 
the  densely  packed  lines.  All  looked  forward  with 
intense  excitement  to  the  tournament  which  was  now 
to  come. 


160  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

But  instead  of  giving  the  signal  for  this, 
Sheikh  Abdallah  took  a  few  steps  forward  into  the 
lists. 

'  Sons  of  the  desert ! '  he  cried  in  a  voice  so  loud  as 
to  command  instant  attention.  '  You  all  know  what 
has  come  to  pass  in  these  days.  The  Unbelievers, 
blinded  with  their  presumption  and  with  a  contemptible 
greed,  have  sailed  over  the  seas.  They  have  taken 
possession  of  the  town  of  Tripoli  and  declared  the 
whole  country  to  be  their  property.  Who  are  they  ? 
I,  too,  have  inquired  about  that.  An  answer  I  have 
never  heard.  We  only  know  that  some  misguided 
heretics — may  the  plague  overtake  them  ! — have  taken 
up  their  abode  on  the  coast.  And  since  they  are 
persisting  in  their  obstinacy  and  intend  to  remain  in 
the  country,  there  is  nothing  further  left  for  us  to  do 
than  to  hurl  them  back  into  the  sea.  The  battle, 
which  we  have  now  fought  out  in  jest,  will  be  seen 
within  a  few  days  before  the  gates  of  Tripoli.' 

Even  after  the  opening  sentences  there  had  been 
some  applause  here  and  there.  But  when  the  sheikh 
reached  this  point  in  his  discourse,  swords  and  rifles 
were  stretched  up  out  of  the  crowd  of  spectators,  and 
a  multitudinous  outcry  rang  wild  and  piercing  over 
the  festival  grounds. 

'  Beni  Hamka  !  Allah  akbar  !  Beni  Hamka  ! 
Allah  akbar  ! '  It  was  the  women  who  shouted  the 
loudest  and  most  vehemently,  saying  : 

'  May  Allah  give  you  strength  to  wipe  them  out ! 
God  is  great  !  Allah  akbar  !  ' 

'  The  end  of  the  Beni  Hamka  fantasia  will  be  fought 
out  with  drawn  swords,'  continued  the  sheikh,  as 
soon  as  the  sudden  uproar  had  as  suddenly  died  down. 
'  When  the  chargers  of  the  clan  have  borne  our  horse- 


THE  FANTASIA  161 

men  across  the  desert,  they  will  trample  the  Infidels  to 
dust.'  Sheikh  Abdallah  stooped  down  and  picked  up 
a  handful  of  sand,  which  he  let  trickle  through  his  fingers. 
'  See  !  thus  will  the  children  of  the  Prophet  do  unto  the 
intruders.  May  their  fate  be  a  warning  to  all !  '  The 
speaker  swept  his  eyes  round  the  circle,  which  had 
closed  into  a  mass  so  dense  that  there  was  no  elbow- 
room  left.  '  To-morrow  at  daybreak  the  warriors  of 
the  Beni  Hamka  march  off.  May  Allah  watch  over 
their  footsteps.'  With  a  bend  of  his  neck,  Sheikh 
Abdallah  would  have  retired.  He  knew  his  men's 
minds  and  he  relied  on  them,  after  he  had  made  known 
his  will. 

He  had  not  underrated  their  fighting  mood.  The 
anger  which  had  smouldered  so  long  in  their  hearts 
flamed  up  suddenly.  Cries  of  '  Allah,'  mingled  with 
curses  on  the  Unbelievers,  thundered  like  a  hurricane 
over  the  pleasure-ground. 

Sheikh  Abdallah  smiled  to  right  and  left.  Even 
if  he  had  not  raised  the  storm,  he  had  at  least  directed 
its  course. 

'  We  shall  lead  you  on  to  victory  through  the 
battle — I  and  my  son  .  .  .  Mansur.'  And,  as  if  it 
were  a  detail  of  no  consequence,  he  added  :  '  Djafar, 
who  has  required  far  too  much  of  himself  and  his 
horse  already,  will  stay  at  home.'  With  another 
bend  of  his  head,  the  sheikh  stepped  with  dignified 
mien  out  of  the  circle,  which  made  way  for  him. 

Fermal  Bey,  who  had  stood  behind  the  sheikh 
wedged  in  the  crowd,  looked  around  him.  That 
Djafar  was  to  remain  at  home,  depressed  him.  He 
had  formed  a  clear  idea  already  as  to  the  intrigues 
and  countershifts  in  the  tribe  of  the  Beni  Hamka.  He 
was  in  no  way  deceived  by  the  peace  and  quietness 


162  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

which  reigned  only  on  the  surface.  He  divined  the 
violent  passions  beneath ;  he  noted  the  dissension. 
The  sheikh  was  held  in  high  regard,  but  was  not 
popular.  As  for  Mansur — Fermal  Bey  dismissed  him 
with  a  shrug  :  a  weak  youth,  easily  led.  Djafar,  on  the 
other  hand,  had  enormous  influence  over  his  Bedouins  : 
he  was  a  born  leader.  And  this  was  the  man  whom, 
by  hook  or  by  crook,  they  would  oust  from  his  position. 
.  .  .  The  Turk  scowled  after  Sheikh  Abdallah. 

The  sight  of  the  camels,  from  whose  canopies  the 
ladies  had  witnessed  the  fantasia,  turned  his  thoughts 
in  a  new  direction.  Behind  the  curtains  Mansur's 
mother  was  concealed.  She  had  long  since  supplanted 
a  favoured  rival,  and  now  she  was  plotting  to  disinherit 
the  son.  The  Turk  paused  to  wish  that  Arab  ceremonial 
had  been  less  rigid :  had  at  least  allowed  him  to  hear 
that  woman's  voice.  But  such  a  thing  was  incon- 
ceivable. He  would  never  learn  anything  of  this 
creature  who,  in  the  semi-darkness  of  a  harem,  twisted 
the  threads  of  such  intrigues  and  set  men's  minds  in 
motion.  Presumably  it  was  she  who  had  confirmed 
Sheikh  Abdallah  in  his  resolution.  And  when  husband 
and  son  came  back  famous  from  the  war,  Djafar,  who 
had  borne  no  part  in  it,  would  be  forgotten  by  his 
supporters.  A  simple  matter,  surely.  .  .  .  Fermal 
Bey  again  shrugged  his  shoulders.  In  any  case,  he 
had  succeeded  in  his  mission.  In  his  mind's  eye 
he  saw  a  host  of  mounted  warriors  in  their  white  robes 
rushing  like  the  wind  to  the  coast.  From  the  outermost 
limits  of  the  wilderness  they  rode  along  at  full  gallop 
and  formed  an  impassable  circle  round  the  invaders. 
First  came  the  sturdy,  untiring  Berbers;  next  the 
stately  Bedouins  with  their  courage  and  contempt 


THE  FANTASIA  163 

of  death ;  and  last,  the  Tuaregs  and  the  Soudanese. 
Thirsting  for  revenge,  ablaze  with  anger,  they  were  all 
driven  northwards  as  by  some  irresistible  force.  .  .  . 
Yes,  his  mission  had  been  successful. 

Fermal  Bey  tore  himself  from  his  musings  and  made 
haste  to  overtake  the  two  sheikhs,  who  were  wending 
their  way  slowly  and  with  dignity  to  the  town. 

'  I  thank  you  in  the  name  of  my  country,'  he  began 
with  eager  warmth. 

'  Eh  .  .  .  what  do  you  say  ?  '  said  Sheikh 
Abdallah,  looking  at  him  in  astonishment. 

'  In  the  name  of  the  Prophet/  amended  Fermal 
Bey.  He  had  mentioned  an  unknown  term.  The 
European  at  once  saw  his  mistake,  and  smiled  politely. 

Sheikh  Abdallah  gave  an  almost  imperceptible 
bow  of  the  head  and  walked  quietly  on.  The  Turk 
took  the  hint  and  stayed  behind. 

Nearly  half  of  the  spectators  were  encamped  on 
the  festival  grounds.  Little  groups  of  people  were 
standing  about  and  talking  in  hushed  voices  and  with 
subdued  gestures.  Plainly  enough,  something  had 
aroused  their  indignation  and  left  them  undecided. 
Fermal  Bey,  put  out  of  temper,  wondered  whether 
all  of  them  would  really  start  next  day. 

A  little  way  ahead  the  camels  were  swaying  along 
to  the  town.  Mansur  was  walking  alongside  the  first 
and  .  .  .  Could  his  eyes  be  deceiving  him  ?  No ; 
keeping  in  step  with  him  at  his  side  was  Djafar,  who, 
to  judge  from  his  behaviour  and  bearing,  was  bubbling 
over  with  friendliness.  Mansur,  on  the  other  hand, 
stiffly  kept  his  distance,  openly  nursing  a  grievance. 

Fermal  Bey  bit  his  lip  with  vexation.  His  anxiety 
awoke.  Anything  that  led  him  to  suppose  that  it 

M  2 


164  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

might  have  a  disturbing  effect  on  to-morrow's  march 
off  irritated  him.  He  looked  round  inquiringly.  Yes  ; 
the  air  was  plainly  charged  with  electricity. 

And  with  the  thought  came  the  explosion.  The 
curtains  of  the  canopy,  shielding  the  ladies  from 
inquisitive  eyes,  opened  ever  so  slightly,  and  a  clenched 
fist  reached  down  towards  the  brothers.  A  deluge 
of  angry  words  burst  from  a  pair  of  woman's  lips. 
Mansur,  too,  said  something  in  the  same  angry  tones. 

Djafar  stopped.  He  looked  up  at  the  hand  and 
then  down  at  his  brother's  face.  After  which  he 
salaamed  humbly,  and  stood  still  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground. 

All  those  round  about  pulled  up.  Curiosity,  rage, 
or  contempt  cried  out  in  the  eyes  of  all.  A  moment 
after,  the  voice  from  within  the  canopy  was  hushed,  the 
hand  vanished,  and  the  camel  stole  on.  Mansur 
walked  alongside  ;  but  now  he  was  as  good  as  alone. 
Not  only  Djafar,  but  everyone  else  had  remained 
behind ;  it  was  a  silent  but  forcible  demonstration. 
The  tribe  had  thrown  in  their  lot  with  Djafar  against 
Mansur  and  his  mother.  All  eyes  were  turned  on  the 
two  sheikhs. 

Nothing  showed  that  Sheikh  Abdallah  had  noticed 
anything.  He  strode  on,  calm  and  aloof;  But  the 
old  Sheikh  Mabrouk  shook  his  head.  He  turned 
to  his  companion  and  saw  the  anger  smouldering  at 
the  back  of  his  eyes. 

Sheikh  Mabrouk  had  an  idea  that  the  wedding- 
festival  would  end  with  a  scene  in  Abdallah's  harem. 
The  secrets  of  the  ladies'  quarters  are  never  divulged  ; 
but  he  supposed  that  recourse  would  be  had  to  the 
switch  or,  perhaps,  even  to  the  whip.  A  woman  who 


THE  FANTASIA  165 

makes  her  husband  look  ridiculous  in  public  richly 
deserves  such  treatment.  The  old  man  hoped  that 
his  daughter  would  behave  herself  more  prudently 
when  her  husband  became  head  of  the  tribe. 

Pompously,  and  in  silence,  the  two  sheikhs  turned 
into  the  main  street  of  the  town.  The  murmur  in 
their  rear  grew  louder.  The  Bedouins  of  El  Mur 
shouted  at  the  top  of  their  voices  that  they  would 
follow  no  one  but  Djafar.  The  neighbouring  tribe 
of  Ufana  applauded  vociferously.  Their  discontent, 
like  the  ripples  which  fret  the  face  of  the  water  when 
a  stone  is  thrown  in,  spread  to  the  rest  of  the  gathering. 
The  Bedouins  from  the  north  chimed  in  with  them. 
That  greater  or  smaller  bands  of  each  tribe  should  go 
up  against  the  Unbelievers  on  the  coast,  was  settled 
once  for  all.  But  whether  they  acknowledged  Sheikh 
Abdallah's  green  flag,  was  far  from  being  decided. 
No ;  merely  because  the  Beni  Hamka  clan  was  the 
wealthiest  and  most  numerous  in  that  part  of  the 
country,  was  that  a  reason  why  the  rest  of  them  should 
submit  themselves  to  his  dictatorship  ? 

The  words  flew  from  lip  to  lip.  What  had  Ibn 
Hamkal's  family  squabbles  to  do  with  them  ?  Give 
them  Djafar,  or  any  other  sheikh  whatever,  but  not 
Abdallah,  nor  that  old  skin-flint  Mabrouk. 

'  El  Mur  !  El  Mur  !  '  yelled  the  men  from  the  oasis 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  wilderness. 

'  Derdj  !  '  was  the  haughty  counter-cry  from  a  few 
men  from  the  north,  and  others  re-echoed  their  claim. 
Their  sheikh  was  young.  Why  had  he  not  come  to 
this  wedding  ?  They  said  he,  too,  had  asked  for  the 
hand  of  Sheikh  Mabrouk's  daughter  in  marriage. 
Sheikh  Abdallah's  son,  on  certain  conditions,  had 


166  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

been  preferred.  .  .  .  Bah !  that  was  tittle-tattle  ;  was 
it  becoming  for  men  to  bother  their  heads  about  such 
matters  ?  '  Derdj  !  Derdj  ! '  If  the  men  from  the 
south  had  a  mind  to  follow  them,  they  were  welcome. 

'  El  Mur  !  El  Mur  ! '  was  the  defiant  cry  from  a 
few  hundred  throats. 

Thus  two  parties  were  formed,  with  a  sharp  dividing 
line  between  them. 

'El  Mur!  El  Mur!' 

'  Derdj  !    Derdj  ! ' 

On  the  slope  of  the  hill  stood  Fermal  Bey  with 
clenched  teeth.  The  report  which  he  had  mapped 
out  in  his  mind  began  fairly  enough,  but  the  sequel 
seemed  likely  to  be  anything  but  promising.  This 
mean  jealousy  and  incessant  wrangling  over  quite  in- 
cidental privileges  were  the  ruination  of  all  business. 
He  scowled  sullenly  round  him.  Down  below  stood 
Sergeant  Esjuk  among  the  Bedouins  of  El  Mur.  And 
he,  who  of  all  people  should  have  had  more  sense,  was 
shouting  loudest  of  all  the  name  of  his  tribe.  But  was 
there  really  no  leader — not  one — who  could  combine 
the  different  elements  and  unite  the  contending  minds  ? 
Perplexed,  he  averted  his  eyes  from  the  crowds  on  the 
plain  and  saw  Djafar.  He  was  still  standing  in  the  same 
humble  attitude,  his  arms  hanging  limp  at  his  sides. 

'  He  is  playing  his  part  all  right/  thought  the  Turk 
bitterly  ;  '  but  it  is  dissimulation,  for  all  that.' 

A  man  approached  from  the  town,  walking  very 
fast.  Fermal  Bey  recognised  the  one-eyed  renegade. 
What  was  to  happen  next  ? 

Mechuel  stopped  in  front  of  his  master,  who  uttered 
a  word  or  two. 

The  servant  salaamed  and  went  on  his  way  to  the 


THE  FANTASIA  167 

plain.  He  mixed  in  the  crowd,  and  wherever  he  went 
he  dropped  a  few  words,  which  were  repeated  and  then 
re-echoed  from  lip  to  lip.  The  effect  of  the  words  was 
wonderful.  They  acted  like  a  charm,  subduing  the 
rebellious  minds,  quieting  the  unrest,  uniting  all 
hearts.  The  outcries  were  hushed,  the  different 
groups  intermingled.  All  party  strife  was  over. 
Eyes,  that  had  been  blazing  with  hatred,  met  one 
another  with  understanding ;  and  hands,  which  shortly 
before  had  been  feeling  for  their  swords,  dropped 
peacefully  to  their  sides. 

'  Beni  Hamka  ! '  cried  a  mighty  voice,  and  forthwith 
all  shouted  with  one  accord  :  '  Beni  Hamka  !  Beni 
Hamka ! '  And  in  the  very  middle  of  the  crowd 
Sergeant  Esjuk  flung  up  his  arms  to  heaven  and 
joined  in  with  the  others. 

Fermal  Bey  looked  back  at  the  man  who  had 
worked  this  miracle  through  his  messenger.  Over 
there  in  front  walked  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal  with  his 
wiry  stride.  He  was  making  for  the  town.  He  was 
too  far  away  to  call  to  him.  No  matter,  it  only 
meant  he  would  learn  the  tenor  of  the  greeting  a 
little  later. 

When  Fermal  Bey  turned  into  the  main  street  of 
the  town,  he  was  struck  by  the  unusual  bustle.  Every- 
where resounded  the  loud  voices  of  women,  the  shrill 
cries  of  children ;  and,  before  the  armourer's  workshop, 
a  long  line  of  men  were  waiting.  A  fantasia,  ending 
with  a  fight  against  the  Infidels  with  drawn  swords, 
was  a  thing  that  had  never  been  seen  before.  Who 
but  Sheikh  Abdallah  could  have  conceived  the  daring 
thought  ?  Who  but  the  men  of  the  Beni  Hamka  were 
capable  of  turning  it  into  action  ?  Their  victory  would 


168  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

ring  through  the  centuries  in  songs  and  in  traditions ; 
their  children  and  their  children's  children,  down  to  the 
fifth  and  the  sixth  generations,  would  listen  with 
shining  eyes  to  the  ballads  on  the  rude  reality  of  this 
wonderful  fantasia  ! 

Fermal  Bey  walked  thoughtfully  along  the  street. 
At  headquarters  it  would  be  put  down  to  his  credit 
that  this  immense  wave  of  humanity  rolled  to  the 
coast.  He  was  contented,  and  longed  for  the  morning 
to  come. 

In  Sheikh  Abdallah's  house  all  was  ablaze  with 
lights,  although  it  was  not  yet  dark.  The  bride- 
groom's father  meant  to  show  by  this  that  he  gave  no 
thought  to  the  cost,  more  especially  because  the 
festivities  were  being  cut  short  on  account  of  the 
march  off  next  day.  The  guests  sat  round  the 
small  courtyard  or  in  the  adjoining  rooms.  No  one 
spoke  a  word.  Not  a  sound  was  heard  but  the  jingling 
of  the  coffee-cups.  All  these  men  observed  a  dignified 
deliberation :  they  even  avoided  looking  at  one 
another. 

In  the  twilight  came  Mansur,  heralded  by  the 
rattling  of  the  tambourines  in  front  of  the  house.  He 
had  been  praying  in  the  mosque,  and  a  faint  smell  of 
incense  still  clung  to  his  clothes.  A  few  boys  led  the 
way,  carrying  five  candles  in  a  candelabrum  all  burning 
brightly  in  the  still  air.  Mansur  followed  the  lights 
with  overwrought  eyes  :  their  clear,  steady  flame 
betokened  a  happy  marriage. 

The  curious,  who  had  followed  him  home,  babbled 
incessantly  with  one  another  to  the  accompaniment 
of  the  tambourines. 

When  Mansur  stepped  into  the  courtyard  he  was 


THE  FANTASIA  169 

greeted  from  the  upper  story  of  the  house  by  a  shrill, 
long-sustained  cry  of  joy  : 

'  Ih  .  .  .  ih  .  .  .  ije  .  .  .  ije  .  .  .  ih  !  ' 

It  came  from  the  womenfolk.  Even  if  no  strange 
man  ever  had  the  right  to  see  them,  they  were  yet 
allowed  to  gaze  upon  the  men  from  a  distance.  And 
so  now,  as  prescribed  by  custom,  they  were  welcoming 
the  bridegroom  from  behind  their  tiny  latticed 
windows.  For  a  while  they  rilled  the  whole  house 
with  their  twittering  ;  outside  rattled  the  tambourines. 
The  guests  smiled  out  of  politeness  ;  but  no  one  stirred, 
no  one  said  a  word.  Respect  for  Sheikh  Abdallah 
demanded  that  nobody,  even  in  his  most  secret 
thoughts,  should  steal  a  glance  to  where  his  wives 
abode. 

With  swift  steps  Mansur  hurried  past  the  chamber 
to  which  his  father  had  retired.  As  in  a  dream,  the 
bridegroom  saw  his  stern  features  glide  by  and  vanish 
out  of  sight.  Not  so  much  as  an  eyelid  had  moved — 
why  was  that  ?  He  loved  him  ;  to  his  second  son  he 
would  surely  bequeath  the  green  turban — the  emblem 
of  his  holiness  and  power.  Everything  on  that  memor- 
able day  promised  him  that.  And  ,  at  his  feet,  sat 
Mabrouk  who,  for  his  daughter's  sake  as  well,  perhaps, 
as  for  his  own,  shared  his  hopes.  Yet  not  an  eyelid 
.  .  .  Oh,  that  was  not  of  any  consequence — the  bride 
was  awaiting  his  coming !  .  .  .  The  bride  .  .  . 

At  a  staircase  the  candle-bearers  stopped.  One  of 
them  pointed,  beaming  to  the  flames  :  all  were  burning 
brightly  and  diffusing  a  pleasant  fragrance.  Mansur 
responded  to  the  lad's  smile  and  then  bounded 
upstairs.  The  bride  was  waiting  .  .  . 

The  guests  were  sitting  in  impassive  silence  as 


170  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

before.  The  '  Ih-ije  '  cry  subsided  as  soon  as  Mansur 
passed  out  of  sight.  The  tambourines  in  the  street 
beat  a  farewell.  Outside  the  darkness  deepened  and 
the  stars  brightened. 

With  a  hand  trembling  with  over-excitement, 
Mansur  tapped  on  the  door  before  which  he  stood.  As 
the  custom  required,  he  waited  until  it  was  opened 
from  within. 

He  saw  before  him  a  great  hall ;  candles  and  lamps 
were  burning  everywhere.  A  hand  reached  out  for 
him,  and  he  heard  his  mother's  voice,  saying : 

'  Come  ! ' 

From  the  adjoining  rooms  came  a  whisper  of 
voices,  muffled  and  excited,  and  the  rustle  of  silk 
dresses.  For  all  of  the  lady-guests  had  just  taken 
to  flight  at  the  entrance  of  a  man.  But  their  eyes 
blazed  from  behind  their  veils  and  followed  the  bride- 
groom's every  movement. 

Mansur  saw  nothing ;  he  heard  nothing.  His 
eyes  hung  on  the  closed  door  immediately  in  front  of 
him. 

'  Oh,  Lalla  !  .  .  .  Lalla  !  '  he  breathed,  excited. 

Close  beside  his  ear  came  his  mother's  reply,  low 
but  impressive  : 

'  Never  forget  who  gave  thee  life  !  May  Allah — 
praised  be  his  name  for  ever  and  ever  ! — guide  thy 
footsteps ! '  And  his  mother  opened  the  door,  pushed 
her  son  into  the  room  and  softly  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 

Mansur  took  a  step  forward;  then  stopped  and 
looked  straight  on  inquiringly. 

On  a  gilt  chair  in  the  background  of  the  room  sat 
the  bride.  Decked  out  in  the  utmost  finery  and  laden 


THE  FANTASIA  171 

with  jewels,  she  waited  for  her  husband.  Her  face 
was  smeared  all  over  with  a  thick  coat  of  paint  and 
powder,  but  nothing  could  spoil  the  exceeding  delicacy 
of  the  features.  And  below  the  pencilled  brows  the 
eyes  beamed  out,  large,  brilliant,  and  tender.  A 
timid  life  lay  within  them,  and  the  desire  to  please, 
and  a  bashful  question. 

Mansur  bowed  low  his  head. 

'  Thou,  my  wife,  in  this  life  and  in  the  next,  I 
greet  thee.' 

'  Thy  handmaid,  that  is  of  less  account  than  the 
dust  beneath  thy  feet,  bids  thee  welcome  ! '  breathed 
the  bride's  voice,  with  a  slight  tremble. 

Mansur  smiled  happily,  and  for  the  first  time  ven- 
tured to  behold  his  wife,  who  had  of  late  engrossed 
his  every  thought  and  feeling.  Risja,  despite  her 
youth,  was  very  plump.  He  had  never  for  a  moment 
expected  anything  else,  to  be  sure,  since  it  was  his 
mother  who  had  selected  the  bride ;  but  he  was  not 
the  less  delighted  on  that  account.  His  enraptured 
eyes  rested  a  second  on  the  arch  so  soft  and  so  white 
peeping  out  of  green  slippers  embroidered  with  gold. 
With  a  bashful  look  that  seemed  almost  to  beg  per- 
mission, he  strayed  up  and  up  to  the  youthful,  volup- 
tuous figure  in  the  rich  bridal  array.  He  saw  a  pair  of 
loose,  blue  trousers,  a  silver-embroidered  waistcoat  of 
dull-green  silk,  an  orange-coloured  blouse,  and  a  tiny 
head-dress  red  as  a  poppy,  that  nodded  like  a  flower  in 
the  great  coils  of  blue-black  hair  adorned  with  pearls. 
And  out  of  this  maze  of  colour  and  embroidery  a  pair 
of  tender  eyes,  soft  as  velvet,  gave  him  greeting,  and 
he  could  hear  the  silk  rustle  with  the  beats  of  an 
anxious  heart. 


172  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

For  one  instant  Mansur  never  moved,  giddy  as 
he  was  and  almost  trembling  with  happiness.  At  the 
next  he  flew  so  fast  to  his  bride  that  his  marriage, 
robes  fluttered. 

'  Oh,  thou  Desire  of  my  soul,  Light  of  my  heart, 
thou  Dream  of  my  dreams  !  .  .  .' 

He  threw  himself  down  before  Risja,  and  caught 
hold  of  her  veil  and  pressed  it  to  his  eager  lips.  He 
dared  not  so  much  as  to  touch  the  bride  herself  without 
her  sanction. 

'  Who  am  I  that  thou  shouldst  praise  me  ?  Thy 
bond-maiden,  no  more.' 

'  Then  I  become  the  bondsman  of  my  bondmaid, 
and  desire  nothing  better.' 

Mansur  raised  his  eyes  from  her  foot  to  her  hand. 

'  Thine  arms  are  soft  as  the  mountain  snow. 
Praised  be  Allah,  who  hath  sent  down  a  houri  upon 
earth  ! ' 

'  My  lord  and  master  !  '  The  bride's  voice  trembled. 
Bashfully  she  stroked  his  hair  with  her  tiny  brown 
hand ;  hesitatingly,  as  who  should  say :  '  Dare  I 
do  it  ?  ' 

'  Thy  hand  is  cool  and  yet  warm ;  lay  it  on  my 
brow.  Good  thoughts  and  sweet  dreams  will  then 
come  to  me  from  thee.'  He  seized  her  hand,  and 
kissed  it  again  and  again. 

'  I  thank  thee,  lord.  Thou  art  gentle  as  a  dove 
and  strong  as  a  lion.' 

Mansur  stood  up.  Risja  also  rose.  For  a  while 
both  remained  silent.  Their  hearts  were  overflowing, 
then:  lips  trembled. 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  they  heard 
the  mother's  voice  saying  : 


THE  FANTASIA  173 

'  The  wedding  cup  ! ' 

Mansur  ran  to  the  door,  through  which  a  small  tray 
was  handed  to  him.  He  took  the  cup  carefully,  for 
it  was  full  to  the  brim,  and  it  was  most  important 
that  not  a  drop  should  be  spilt.  No  ;  although  his 
hands  trembled,  all  went  well.  A  thoughtful  mother 
had  left  a  margin.  Without  taking  his  eyes  off  the 
bride  Mansur  drank  a  draught.  Afterwards  Risja 
took  a  sip. 

'  Now  we  have  shown  that  for  us  two  everything  is 
one.  Whatever  life  bestows  on  me  is  thine  as  well, 
Risja.' 

The  bride  came  slowly  towards  him. 

'  My  lord  and  husband,  if  I  have  the  privilege  of 
seeing  thee  every  day  that  Allah  gives  me,  there  is 
nothing  left  for  me  to  wish.' 

Mansur  knit  his  brows  in  thought.  Something 
or  other  was  implied  in  the  words,  but  what  ?  Oh  yes, 
the  battle  in  store  for  the  morrow. 

'  Risja,  my  wife,  look  at  me  ! ' 

She  turned  to  him,  and  her  eyes  said  they  liked 
doing  that  best  of  all. 

'  Thou  art  the  bride  of  a  warrior.  One  day  I  am 
to  be  the  head  of  a  mighty  tribe  and  to  become  a 
marabout.  I  have  duties.  And  Allah — may  he  be 
praised  for  giving  me,  through  thee,  the  joys  of  the 
seven  heavens — also  demands  that  I  fulfil  them.' 

Risja  bowed  her  head.  She  realised  the  duty,  and 
raised  no  further  objections. 

'  I  promise  thee  to  return  soon.'  Mansur  took 
her  hand.  '  Cool  as  snow,  soft  as  silk,  but  yet  strong  as 
steel !  Praised  be  the  Lord  of  the  heaven  and  of  the 
earth,  for  thy  sake  ! ' 


174  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  Oh,  captain,  thou  art  making  my  heart  sick  with 
blissfulness.' 

'  And  mine  is  burning  like  a  flaming  fire,  which  the 
light  of  thine  eyes  hath  kindled.' 

She  looked  up  in  his  face  with  yearning.  Their 
lips  moved,  but  they  could  not  utter  the  words  that 
their  feelings  engendered.  She  moved  restlessly  from 
one  foot  to  the  other.  On  a  sudden  she  took  one 
step  forward  and  then  another  and  stood  close  beside 
him. 

He  raised  his  arms,  and  his  hands  lightly  touched  her 
shoulders.  A  trembling  shook  her  from  head  to  foot, 
her  eyes  grew  moist  and  gazed  up  to  the  man  in  meek 
triumph.  Cautiously,  as  though  she  were  a  butterfly 
from  whose  wings  he  would  not  have  brushed  the 
sheen  for  the  world,  he  drew  her  to  his  heart.  For  a 
moment — perhaps  for  two — she  nestled  there.  Then, 
very  gently,  he  drew  himself  away.  The  splendour 
of  her  wedding  attire  was  uncrumpled  ;  the  gold  dust  on 
the  butterfly's  wings  unspoiled.  Their  sight  was 
drowned  in  each  other's  eyes  ;  two  sighs  burst  together 
from  their  breasts. 

Mansur  was  the  first  to  throw  off  the  enchantment. 
It  ill  became  a  man  from  Ibn  Hamkal's  famous  clan  to 
force  himself  on  the  wife  who  had  been  chosen  for  him. 
She  must  have  time  to  get  used  to  the  sight  of  him. 
She  must  give  herself  to  him  of  her  own  free  will  and 
in  perfect  confidence.  He  meant  to  wait  .  .  . 

Once  more  their  eyes  sought  and  found  each 
other. 

*  I  have  seen  thee  ! '  he  cried,  intoxicated  with 
happiness.  Then  he  wheeled  round  and  strode  to  the 
door. 


THE  FANTASIA  175 

She  gazed  after  him  with  eyes  wide  and  questioning 
until  he  had  disappeared.  Her  head  drooped  to  her 
breast.  For  a  moment  she  stood  very  still,  buried  in 
her  thoughts  ;  then  she  glided  to  the  gilded  chair  and 
sat  down.  Her  arms  dropped  to  her  sides ;  her  eyes 
glistened  through  the  half-closed  lids.  Everything 
about  her  gleamed  and  sparkled  on  dress  and  hair  : 
the  precious  stones  emitted  many-coloured  flashes 
hi  the  glimmering  candlelight ;  the  silk  fell  in  soft 
folds  about  the  youthful  figure,  and  the  young  bride 
sat  alone  in  her  gaudy  splendour. 


The  banquet  was  spread  in  the  courtyard  on  low 
tables.  The  invited  guests  sat  stiff  and  pompously, 
and  fell  to  with  their  fingers.  Mansur  slipped  quietly 
past  the  tall  turbans  and  white  burnous.  He  was 
in  search  of  solitude,  and  felt  glad  that  no  one 
turned  round  to  look  at  him.  He  came  upon  a  dark 
staircase,  ran  softly  up,  and  stepped  on  to  a  small 
terrace. 

A  solitary  man  was  leaning  over  the  balustrade.  He 
turned  quickly  round  and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

'  Is  that  you,  Mansur  ?    I  wish  you  happiness.' 

The  bridegroom's  face  was  consumed  with  anger ; 
fortunately  that  could  not  be  seen  in  the  darkness.  Of 
all  people,  the  man  he  least  wished  to  see  was  the  Turk, 
who  was  the  cause  that  the  wedding  festivities  were 
being  broken  off.  Mansur  clenched  his  fists  as  he 
thought  how  much  this  visit  had  cost  him.  On  a 
sudden,  however,  a  passionate  lust  of  battle  laid  hold 
of  him,  his  heart  thumped  with  joy,  and  he  said  in  a 
friendly  voice  : 


176  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  To-morrow ! ' 

Fermal  Bey  nodded. 

'  We  will  break  the  ranks  of  the  Unbelievers  as 
with  thunderbolts,  and  our  horses  shall  crush  their 
bodies  underfoot.' 

'  You  do  not  seem  to  know  what  a  modern  battle 
is  like.' 

'  Bah !  I  am  sorry  for  their  ignorance.  May 
they  turn  to  dust  and  ashes.'  Mansur  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  adding  :  '  Within  a  week  I  shall  be  here 
again.' 

'  I  trust  you  may.' 

'  I  mean  to  be.     I  say,  I  mean  to  be.' 

It  was  now  Fermal  Bey  that  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
To  attempt  to  give  all  these  hotheads  any  idea  of  the 
technique  of  war  was  purposeless  indeed ;  there  was 
nothing  else  to  do  but  to  let  them  find  out  in  practice 
what  it  really  was.  Besides,  he  had  other  things  to 
think  of  than  of  this  young  fellow,  who,  probably, 
rhapsodised  mostly  of  love  and  kisses.  Had  he  not 
just  learnt  from  Sergeant  Esjuk  the  tenor  of  the 
message  which  had  been  sent  to  the  noisy  Bedouins  by 
Djafar,  the  seeker  and  vigorous  man  of  action  :  '  Meet 
me  next  week  in  front  of  Tripoli.'  That  was  all 
that  the  man  with  the  one  eye  had  had  to  say.  But 
it  was  enough.  Fermal  Bey,  who  had  been  unceasingly 
wavering  between  hope  and  fear,  felt  quiet  in  his  mind 
at  last ;  he  had  carried  his  commission  to  a  success- 
ful conclusion.  Many  people  would  follow  Sheikh 
Abdallah  to  the  north ;  the  rest  would  place  themselves 
under  Djafar's  leadership.  The  Turk  had  an  inkling 
that  beneath  the  surface  an  envenomed  struggle  was 
being  waged  between  father  and  son.  Which  of  the 


THE  FANTASIA  177 

two  won  the  day,  he  did  not  care.  The  cause  to 
which  he  had  devoted  his  energies  would  be  bound 
to  reap  the  fruits  in  either  case.  As  for  the  brothers 
.  .  .  bah  !  ...  in  the  final  winner  was  a  staunch  ally. 
Fermal  Bey  puffed  at  his  pipe  a  while,  and  fell  into  a 
train  of  pleasant  thoughts. 

From  out  of  doors  came  the  ring  of  excited  voices 
and  hurrying  footsteps.  In  the  armourer's  work- 
shop there  was  a  clank  of  metal,  and  the  ham- 
mers never  ceased  beating  down  upon  the  resonant 
steel. 

From  near  and  far  resounded  the  neighing  of  horses 
and  the  restive  stamping  of  their  hoofs  upon  the 
pavement. 


Zared  fell  to  beating  the  big  drum  as  soon  as 
Fermal  Bey  had  informed  Sheikh  Abdallah  that 
they  were  neariBg  the  camp.  The  sheikh,  who  was 
riding  at  the  head  with  Mansur  at  his  side,  drew 
rein. 

'  Where  ?  '  he  asked,  knitting  his  brows  so  as  to 
enable  him  to  see  better. 

Fermal  Bey  described  an  enormous  semicircle 
with  his  hand, 

'  Everywhere  ?  '  the  sheikh  asked  again. 

'  Yes ;  we  have  placed  our  troops  to  meet  the 
dispositions  of  the  enemy.' 

Sheikh  Abdallah's  face  grew  intensely  thoughtful. 

'  Do  you  allow  the  Infidels  to  decide  your  move- 
ments ?  ' 

The  Turk  marked  the  scorn  in  the  question,  and 
answered,  nettled  : 

N 


178  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  Modern  warfare  puts  great  demands  .  .  .'  Then 
he  stopped,  piqued ;  it  sounded  for  all  the  world  as 
though  he  were  saying  over  a  page  out  of  the  recruits' 
drill-book. 

'  What  has  become  of  the  Infidels  ?  '  was  the 
sheikh's  next  question. 

'  They  are  farther  on  ...  inside  the  circle.' 
Fermal  Bey  leaped  from  the  saddle,  and  eagerly  began 
to  draw  a  few  lines  with  the  toe  of  his  boot.  '  Just 
look  here,  Sheikh  Abdallah ! '  he  cried.  '  Here 
lies  the  town,'  and  he  bored  a  small  hole  in  the  ground 
with  his  heel.  '  And  here  are  the  enemy's  lines.  Over 
there,  in  front,  ours.' 

The  sheikh  pondered  a  while. 

'  So  if  we  ride  straight  on,  we  shall  be  sure  to  meet 
with  them  ? ' 

'  Certainly  we  shall !  But,  surely,  you  do  not 
mean  .  .  .' 

'  Yes,  I  do.'  Sheikh  Abdallah  turned  round  on 
his  horse.  '  Louder,  Zared  !  When  the  sun  is  over- 
head, we  shall  ride  to  the  attack.' 

'  Sheikh,  you  must  surely  realise  .  .  .' 

A  wave  of  the  hand  in  dismissal  was  the  only 
answer. 

Fermal  Bey  bit  his  under-lip.  It  was  no  use  to  say 
another  word  on  the  subject,  so  much  was  plain  from 
Sheikh  Abdallah's  whole  demeanour.  Something  else, 
besides  the  Bedouin's  blind  love  of  fighting,  conduced 
to  his  resolution.  On  the  way  the  Turk  had  tried 
more  than  once  to  din  into  Mansur's  head  a  notion 
as  to  the  preparations  which  were  necessary  for  a 
modern  battle.  The  young  Arab  had  listened  with 
his  thoughts  elsewhere,  and  when  Fermal  had  asked 


THE  FANTASIA  179 

if  he  had  understood  him,  the  reply  invariably 
was  : 

'  First  the  fight,  then  the  victory.'  And  with 
a  dreamy  smile  that  had  never  left  his  lips 
since  the  march  began,  he  would  add  :  '  And  then 
happiness.' 

Fermal  Bey  had  shrugged  his  shoulders  angrily, 
and  left  Mansur  to  his  thoughts.  He  had  next  turned 
to  the  sheikh.  For  hours  together  he  had  ridden 
silently  at  his  side,  awaiting  what  seemed  to  him  a 
good  opportunity  for  beginning  his  descriptions  and 
advice. 

Not  a  feature  altered  in  Sheikh  Abdallah's  face. 
Calm  and  unmoved,  he  allowed  the  Turk  to  run  on. 
And  when  the  latter  stopped  in  pique,  he  asked  in- 
differently : 

'  What,  then,  in  your  opinion,  is  the  one  thing 
needful  ?  ' 

'  Training — tireless,  unremitting  training.  Believe 
me,  sheikh  .  .  .' 

But  Abdallah  interrupted  him  with  a  patronising 
wave  of  the  hand,  saying  : 

'  Cannot  the  Beni  Hamka  men  shoot  ?  Are  not  their 
horses  swift  as  the  wind,  their  arms  strong,  and  their 
hearts  full  of  courage  ?  What  more  would  you  have  ? 
Allah- — may  his  name  be  praised,  now  and  for  ever — 
will  reward  them  for  their  bravery.' 

Fermal  Bey's  every  objection  rebounded  unap- 
preciated against  Sheikh  Abdallah's  calm  superiority. 

The  Turk  saluted,  saying  : 

'  Where  our  headquarters  have  been  removed 
to  now,  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  will  seek  out  the 
staff.' 

N  2 


i8o  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  Do  as  you  think  best.'  So  saying,  Sheikh 
Abdallah  affably  waved  his  hand  in  farewell. 

Fermal  Bey  set  spurs  to  his  horse  and  went  off  at 
a  gallop.  He  simply  could  not  trust  himself  to  stay 
longer,  lest  his  discontent  might  explode.  He  turned 
aside  to  the  right  over  a  mound  of  sand  and  dis- 
covered at  a  short  distance  an  immense  tent.  The 
red  crescent  above  showed  him  that  it  was  the  field 
hospital. 

Some  ambulance  officials  came  out  with  one  of 
the  surgeons. 

'  Headquarters  ?  '  answered  the  latter  to  the 
captain's  question.  '  The  day  before  yesterday,  I 
seem  to  remember  seeing  somewhere  over  there ' — 
he  pointed  to  the  left — '  Moussa  Mehemet's  escort, 
but  to-day  .  .  .'he  ended  in  a  shrug.  '  If  you 
have  time  to  ride  to  Ain-Zara,  it  will  perhaps  be 
possible  .  .  . ' 

'  Isn't  there  a  superior  officer  anywhere  here- 
abouts ?  ' 

'  Assan  Bey  rode  by  a  short  time  ago.' 

'  Which  way  did  he  take  ?  Hallo,  here  comes  an 
orderly ! ' 

The  man  in  question  was  able  to  tell  the  captain 
that  the  major,  Assan  Bey,  was  a  kilometre  farther  on. 
Fermal  Bey  gave  his  horse  its  head,  and  rode  in  the 
direction  pointed  out  to  him. 

Assan  Bey  was  a  small,  stout  man,  with  keen,  small 
eyes  and  very  quick  in  his  movements.  He  was 
squatting  in  a  newly  dug  trench  of  communication  and 
munching  a  morsel  of  black  bread,  the  first  meal  of  the 
day.  A  little  farther  on  a  company  of  soldiers  was 
encamped  on  the  sand. 


THE  FANTASIA  181 

The  captain  saluted  and  made  his  report.  The 
major's  eyes  grew  smaller  and  smaller  as  he  listened. 
He  nodded  his  head  two  or  three  times,  chewed,  and 
gave  a  gulp. 

'  Good  !  '  said  he  as  the  captain  came  to  an  end. 
Then  he  looked  round  cautiously,  saying  :  '  We  are 
preparing  a  little  surprise  for  them  near  Bu-Meliana ; 
but  it  will  take  time  to  get  everything  ready.  It 
wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing  if  we  could  divert  their  atten- 
tion here.  The  more  troops  they  concentrate  here, 
the  better  for  our  fellows  in  the  east.'  He  gulped 
down  what  remained  of  the  bread,  and  wistfully  shook 
his  head  when  he  discovered  the  case-bottle  to  be 
empty.  '  How  many  of  them  are  there,  did  you 
say  ?  About  six  hundred,  and  all  in  the  best  of  fettle 
for  a  fight  ?  Good !  An  attack  here  will  cause 
our  friends  over  yonder  to  send  up  one  or,  perhaps, 
even  two  battalions.  That  will  make  one  less  at  the 
springs,  straight  away.  Hallo,  there,  orderly !  My 
horse ! ' 

Half  a  minute  later  the  two  officers,  with  several 
soldiers  behind  them,  were  riding  to  the  place  where 
the  men  from  the  south  were  awaiting  them. 

'  Are  you  very  fagged  after  your  ride  ?  '  asked  the 
major.  '  Otherwise,  I  intended  to  ask  you  to  take 
over  the  command  of  the  company  we  have  left 
behind  us.' 

'  I  should  be  very  grateful  to  you  for  it.  .  .  .' 

'  Good  !  You  see,  the  captain  sprained  his  ankle 
yesterday ;  and  a  day  or  two  ago  the  first  lieutenant 
got  a  stray  bullet  in  his  shoulder.  The  man  in  charge 
at  present  is  the  merest  youngster,  and,  if  it  comes 
to  fighting,  I  cannot  rely  on  him.  It  is  settled,  then, 


182  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

that  you  will  lead  the  company  by  and  by  ?  Good ! 
I  cannot  be  everywhere  at  once  myself,  and  the  front 
is  the  devil  of  a  length.' 

The  major  laughed  merrily  ;  it  was  plain  that 
Fermal  Bey's  arrival  had  rolled  a  load  off  his  shoulders. 
'  Beni  Hamka,  did  you  say  ?  '  he  babbled  on.  '  Big 
and  powerful  clan  that,  eh  ?  Townsfolk  as  well  as 
husbandmen  ?  Not  so  bad,  really.  Listen,  captain  ! 
I  have  got  to  the  bottom  of  these  Arabs.  No  use  in 
our  trying  to  teach  them  a  military  idea  or  two. 
Besides,  we  haven't  the  time  to  spare.  They  must 
learn  by  themselves  what  it  means  to  fight  an  enemy 
armed  with  modern  weapons.  To  hold  them  in 
would  be  unwise.  So,  first,  we  will  make  use  of  their 
love  of  fighting,  and,  afterwards,  we  will  profit  by  their 
thirst  for  revenge.  Believe  me,  captain,  every  war, 
nowadays,  has  its  special  character,  determined  by 
racial  contrasts  or,  if  you  like  it  better,  by  belief  or 
unbelief.  Our  present  war  differs  from  all  the  others 
in  more  ways  than  one.  Thanks  to  the  great 
Powers,  it  will  not  touch  our  European  territory  ; 
and,  what  is  more,  our  expenses,  compared  with 
those  of  Italy,  are  trifling.  Which  for  us  is  the  main 
point,  eh  ?  ' 

Assan  Bey's  small  eyes  sparkled  mischievously  as 
he  continued  :  '  We  must  make  our  friends  on  the 
other  side  pay  as  much  as  possible  for  the  business, 
and  that's  all  about  it.  The  costs  of  our  honourable 
opponents  amounted  from  the  start  to  a  million  lire 
per  day,  in  round  figures.  If  we  can  only  manage  to 
leave  them  out  of  pocket  to  twice  that  tune  every  day, 
we  need  not  worry  about  the  end.' 

Fermal  Bey  stooped  forward  and  listened  with  all 


THE  FANTASIA  183 

his  ears.  These  (anything  but  military)  views  were 
not  precisely  new  to  him,  to  be  sure  ;  but,  up  till  then, 
he  had  never  given  them  much  consideration. 

The  major  chattered  on  tirelessly. 

'  This  war,  you  know,  is  a  pretty  simple  speculation 
on  our  opponent's  part.  Let's  see.  The  affair  will 
cost  us  so  much  ;  it  will  bring  us  in  so  much.  But 
they  have  made  a  slight  mistake  in  reckoning  the 
transaction  ;  they  have  underrated  our  resources.  Six 
thousand  well-trained  troops  in  Tripoli,  and  extremely 
unpleasant  neighbours  in  Europe  ;  basta,  as  our  friends 
over  there  say.  No,  captain,  the  business  wasn't 
quite  so  simple  as  they  thought.  And  if  it's  to  their 
interest  to  cut  the  expenses  down  as  low  as  possible, 
it  is  to  our  advantage  to  screw  them  up  as  high  as 
ever  we  can.  Our  honourable  opponents  fancied  this 
speculation  of  theirs  would  be  over  and  done  with 
before  a  fortnight  was  out.  My  idea,  you  can  bet  what 
you  like,  is  that  it  won't  be  over  for  many  a  month  to 
come.'  The  rotund  little  man  gave  a  merry  laugh, 
and  patted  his  horse's  neck.  '  We,  of  course,  have  never 
anything  else  to  reckon  with  but  the  items,  but  it  can 
do  us  no  harm  to  try  to  reckon  occasionally  the  grand 
total  as  well.  If  we  prolong  the  affair  .  .  .  hallo, 
there  they  are  !  Handsome  lot  and  excellent  horses. 
And  they  have  brought  the  tribal  drum  along,  that's 
a  good  sign.' 

Assan  Bey  straightened  himself,  assumed  a  dignified 
mien,  and  then  began  in  perfect  Arabic  : 

'  Welcome,  children  of  the  Prophet !  I  have  heard 
from  my  friend  the  captain  here,  that  you  are  yearning 
for  the  fight.  Well,  you  shall  be  given  the  place  of 
honour  in  it.' 


184  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Sheikh  Abdallah,  who  had  been  sitting  beside 
Mansur,  stood  up  and  went  to  meet  the  major.  Neither 
Assan  Bey's  insignificant  appearance  nor  his  shabby 
uniform  gave  a  clue  to  his  filling  a  higher  post.  But 
his  assurance  was  too  great  for  a  mistake  to  have  been 
made. 

'  God  bless  you  ! '  said  the  sheikh  in  greeting. 

'  God  keep  you  ! '  answered  Assan  Bey,  and,  as  if 
to  prevent  the  other  from  getting  in  another  word,  he 
immediately  added  :  '  I  am  in  command  of  the  position 
here.  We  have  just  completed  our  plans  for  an 
attack.  You  and  your  tribe  have  come  in  the  nick  of 
time.' 

'  And  where  do  the  Infidels  lie  concealed  ?  '  broke 
in  the  sheikh. 

'  Straight  ahead,  in  the  north-west.  You  need 
have  no  fear  that  they  will  vanish.  Now  lend  an 
attentive  ear  ! '  The  major  turned  his  horse  aside, 
and  Sheikh  Abdallah  followed  after,  half  inclined  to 
resist.  '  You,  too,  captain,'  continued  the  major, 
evidently  determined  to  do  all  the  talking  himself. 
'  The  attack  will  begin  at  one  o'clock.  Look  here, 
sheikh,  you  will  ride  by  that  sand-hill  and  on  through 
the  hollow  to  the  north.  When  you  reach  the  clump  of 
palm-trees  at  the  back  over  there  .  .  .  no,  not  those, 
the  eight  palm-trees  to  the  left  .  .  .  you  will  halt  and 
wait  for  the  captain's  signal.  You  understand, 
sheikh  ?  no  matter  how  hot  the  firing  on  the  right  of 
you  may  grow,  you  will  wait  for  the  captain's  order. 
As  soon  as  you  get  it,  you  will  wheel  round  the  palm- 
trees  and  ride  in  an  easterly  direction.  I  give  you  my 
word  that  you  will  meet  with  the  Italians.  We 
reconnoitred  last  night  and  know  their  position.  The 


THE  FANTASIA  185 

thing  is  to  attack  them  to-day  before  they  have  time 
to  get  reinforcements.  They  have  got  an  advanced 
outpost  over  there.  Wipe  that  out !  Captain,  you 
will  also  push  forward  a  section,  holding  the  rest  of 
the  company  in  reserve.  On  the  left  you  will  keep  in 
touch  with  the  sheikh's  foot.  The  main  attack  will 
be  made  by  the  horse.  As  you  hear,  sheikh,  the 
whole  thing  depends  on  you.  So  you  have  under- 
stood— good  !  May  Allah — praised  be  his  name — guide 
your  footsteps.'  The  major  waved  a  friendly  hand, 
saluted,  and  rode  on. 

'  Captain  !  '  he  cried  ;    '  one  moment !  ' 

The  sheikh  looked  fixedly  after  him. 

'  Am  I  a  dog,'  he  asked,  '  that  the  man  should  give 
me  nothing  but  orders  ?  ' 

'  He  talks  quickly  and  has  much  to  say,'  answered 
Mansur  cautiously. 

'  Had  I  not  already  said  fight,  I  should  scorn  his 
words,'  rejoined  his  father.  But  his  voice  was  not  so 
firm  as  usual.  The  little  major,  in  spite  of  everything, 
had  shaken  his  self-confidence. 

Fermal  Bey  galloped  after  Assan  Bey,  who  at  once 
began  to  chatter  in  his  good-humoured  way. 

'  I  handle  the  Bedouins  after  a  receipt  of  my  own. 
I  never  enter  into  explanations  with  them.  We  should 
never  budge  an  inch,  else.  The  Arabs  don't  take  much 
interest  in  us  and,  frankly,  I  can't  stand  them  either. 
But,  of  course,  that  is  no  reason  why  they  should  not 
be  of  use  to  us  in  our  plans.  The  cleverest  thing  we 
can  do  is  to  keep  on  sending  them  against  our  Italian 
friends.  The  fighting  spirit  of  the  Arabs  won't  last 
for  ever,  say  I.  But  so  long  as  it  is  alive,  we  must 
make  the  most  of  it.  So,  you  lead  the  company,  but 


186  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

spare  the  men  as  much  as  possible.  If  you  think  any- 
thing is  to  be  gained  by  it,  you  may  join  in  the  fighting. 
But  tell  the  leader  of  the  section — I  can't  remember  the 
youngster's  name — to  let  the  Arabs  bear  the  brunt  of 
it.'  Assan  Bey  winked  slyly,  and  then  harked  back  to 
his  favourite  topic.  '  Nowadays,  a  war  brings  no  end 
of  astonishing  combinations  along  with  it.  You  see, 
captain,  a  lost  battle  means  next  to  nothing  after  all, 
and  what's  the  good  of  blinking  the  plain  fact  that  we 
shall  not  beat  the  enemy  in  the  open  field  ?  But ' — 
a  merry  laugh  broke  from  the  major's  lips — '  we  can 
perhaps  turn  the  finances  of  Italy  topsy-turvy.  Six 
months,  captain,  and  we  shall  see.  If  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst,  we  can  retire  till  we  reach  the 
back  of  beyond ;  while  their  costs  will  go  up  and  up 
until  the  bottom  of  their  pockets  is  touched.  I  have  no 
fear  of  the  issue.'  He  tilted  his  head  sideways,  blinked 
at  the  captain  with  a  quizzical  expression,  and  again 
continued  :  '  Your  company  is  posted  on  the  other  side 
of  that  hill.  Pump  the  non-commissioned  officer  who 
was  in  command  of  the  scouting  party  last  night.  I 
will  shove  forward  a  company  to  support  your  right 
wing.  Ride  over  there  now ;  I  turn  off  to  the  right 
here.  Have  to  inspect  the  wells  by  the  field-hospital. 
If  we  are  to  fight,  we  shall  need  water.'  Assan 
Bey  nodded  a  friendly  farewell,  and  rode  on  his  way, 
whistling  a  lively  tune. 

Fermal  Bey  pulled  up  and  looked  after  him.  He 
wished  he  had  known  the  major  well  enough  to  be 
able  to  judge  as  to  how  much  of  his  verbosity  was 
meant  seriously.  He  ran  over  in  his  mind  what  he 
knew  about  the  man.  The  major  had  acted  as  attach^ 
to  a  European  Power,  and,  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war, 


THE  FANTASIA  187 

had  gone  to  Tunis.  Thence  he  had  got  to  the  front. 
They  said  he  was  a  gifted,  but  self-interested,  officer. 
Fermal  Bey  stared  after  the  plump,  squat  figure.  He 
considered  himself  a  typical  European,  but  it  had 
never  entered  his  head  to  regard  war  as  a  matter  of 
£  s.  d.  pure  and  simple.  There  rode  the  major.  In 
the  distance  he  looked  like  nothing  so  much  as  an 
accountant  poring  over  his  ledgers. 

The  captain  sighed.  Had  he  not  heard  so  frequently 
of  Assan  Bey's  presence  of  mind  and  pluck,  such  a  peep 
into  his  thoughts  might  well  have  put  him  out  of 
humour.  Fermal  Bey  dug  his  spurs  into  his  horse  and 
pressed  on  to  where  his  company  was  awaiting  his 
return. 

Assan  Bey — precisely  as  Djafar — was  a  dreamer, 
whose  imagination  had  been  fired  by  the  war.  Yes,  that 
was  so — and,  by  the  way,  what  had  become  of  Djafar  ? 

'  Captain  !  Captain  !  '  Sergeant  Esjuk  came  trot- 
ting leisurely  down  a  hillside. 

'  Where  are  the  others  ?  '  cried  back  Fermal  Bey 
from  a  distance. 

'  Over  there  .  .  .  behind  the  hills  !  They  came  in 
half  an  hour  ago.  Captain,  they  are  four  hundred 
strong,  and  many  more  are  following  after !  Each 
tribe  has  sent  home  a  messenger  to  tell  those  who 
are  still  there  of  the  march  northwards.' 

'  And  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal  ?  ' 

'  He  has  not  turned  up  yet.  But  he  said  he  would 
come.  They  trust  him  blindly.  He  is  becoming  a 
powerful  sheikh.  He  is  the  best  horseman  and  the 
most  skilful  swordsman  in  the  whole  country  .  .  . 
although  the  Bedouins  .  .  .  But,  then,  they  always 
draw  the  long  bow.  They  have  not  seen  Assan  Bey 


i88  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

yet.  Small  as  he  is,  he  can  handle  a  sword  to  such  good 
purpose  that  Iblis  himself  could  not  get  the  better  of 
him.  Anyhow,  one  thing  is  certain,  the  Bedouins  will 
stick  to  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal.  The  Beni  Hamka  is  the 
mightiest  tribe  in  these  parts.  And  old  Mabrouk  has 
no  son.  His  tribe  might  be  absorbed  in  the  greater. 
That  would  be  to  the  profit  of  the  younger  son.  Sheikh 
Abdallah  has  an  eye  to  the  future.  When  one  tribe 
has  joined  him,  perhaps  still  more  will  do  the  same. 
The  sheikhs  of  El  Mur  and  Ufana  are  not  exactly 
pleased  about  it ;  they,  too,  have  an  eye  to  the  future. 
It  is  a  risky  thing  to  put  too  much  power  into  a  single 
hand.  They  are  supporting  Djafar ;  for  he  has  no 
chance  against  his  father  and  his  brother.  When 
neighbours  fall  out,  I  step  in,  as  they  say  in  the  desert.' 
Fermal  Bey  smiled  approval  on  the  sergeant,  who 
had  made  such  good  use  of  his  time. 

Thus  encouraged,  Esjuk  began  again  : 
'  They  are  going  down  to  the  coast  in  great  numbers. 
They  are  curious,  and  think  Sheikh  Abdallah  will 
win  fame  and  followers.  They  want  to  get  their  share. 
Before  we  left  Derdj  they  began  to  make  preparations 
for  marching.  But  it  is  rank  madness  for  men  who 
are  fighting  against  the  same  foe  to  look  askance  at  one 
another.  If  there  were  but  a  living  man  to  lead 
among  them,  the  war  would  speedily  take  a  turn  for 
the  better.  I  mean,  if  such  a  man  united  the  tribes 
and  led  them  forward,  the  Infidels  would  be  obliged  to 
turn  tail  and  slink  home.  But  they  are  ready  to  burst 
with  envy  every  time  their  neighbour  has  a  slice  of  good 
fortune — that's  the  old  story.  Do  you  know  how 
they  answered  me  ?  If  the  Beni  Hamka  fight  to-day, 
we  shall  wait  till  to-morrow.  I  said  something  about 


THE  FANTASIA  189 

the  common  weal,  but  they  had  not  a  notion  of  my 
meaning.  Allah — blessed  be  his  name — enlighten  their 
understanding  !  ' 

'  Assan  Bey,  with  whom  I  have  just  been  talking, 
is  in  no  way  depressed.' 

'  I  have  seen  him  fence.  He  is  prudent  and  brave ; 
but  a  Turk  can  never  unite  the  Bedouins.  Believe 
me,  no  one  but  a  native  can  do  it.  But  where  is  there 
such  a  man  ?  ' 

The  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  caused  them  to  look 
aside.  Some  twenty  lengths  ahead  of  them  an  Arab 
was  riding  in  the  same  direction  as  themselves. 

'  Djafar  !  '  cried  Fermal  Bey,  surprised. 

'  Djafar  ! '  repeated  the  sergeant,  adding,  as  if  to 
himself  :  '  Why,  there  was  not  a  soul  to  be  seen  just 
now  !  Did  he  drop  down  from  heaven  ?  ' 

'  Nonsense  !  you  were  lost  in  your  story ;  I,  in 
listening  to  it.' 

'  Strange ! '  said  Sergeant  Esjuk,  and  shook  his 
head.  '  A  moment  before/  said  he  in  an  excited 
whisper,  '  I  looked  all  round  me  and  saw  nothing.' 

Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal  rode  up  and  greeted  them 
with  a  slight  inclination  of  the  head. 

'  You  have  left  a  long  road  behind  you,'  began 
Fermal  Bey  politely. 

'  The  same  length  as  yours,'  replied  Djafar, 
smoothing  the  folds  of  his  robe.  He  directed  his 
gaze  to  the  crest  of  the  hill,  along  the  southern 
side  of  which  they  were  riding. 

'  And  now  you  are  here,  according  to  your  promise.' 

'  Yesterday  I  was  at  Bu-Meliana.' 

'  Your  horse  is  fleet.' 

'  Fairly  so.' 


PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Fermal  Bey  had  a  string  of  questions  on  the  tip 
of  his  tongue,  but  was  restrained  from  giving  them 
utterance  by  the  other  man's  deliberate  replies. 

Sergeant  Esjuk,  on  the  captain's  left,  looked  across 
at  Djafar  with  a  mixture  of  mistrust  and  admiration. 
The  Arab  saw  the  glance  and  said  : 

'  I  have  seen  the  men  whom  you  follow.  I  have 
also  seen  my  father's  warriors.  They  are  longing  for 
the  fight  to  begin.' 

'  And  you  ?  '  Fermal  Bey  flashed  round  on  him  to 
catch  the  expression  on  his  face. 

'  I  should  like  to  see  and  learn/  answered  Djafar, 
quietly  meeting  the  glance. 

They  had  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill  and 
instinctively  tightened  rein.  The  height  overtopped 
the  sand-hills  round  about.  From  where  they  stood 
they  had  an  extensive  view  of  the  surrounding  country. 

At  some  distance  on  his  left  Djafar  discovered  a 
partially  ruined  house.  He  rode  thither  at  once. 
There  he  was  able  to  observe  everything  going  on 
about  him  without  being  seen  himself.  When  Fermal 
Bey  and  the  sergeant — who  at  once  saw  the  advantage 
which  these  walls  afforded  them — joined  him,  it  was  to 
note  that  he  had  produced  a  field-glass,  and  was 
scanning  the  horizon  with  it.  The  mere  fact  that  the 
Bedouin  possessed  such  an  instrument  was  enough  to 
make  the  captain  consider  him  more  closely.  He  was 
splendidly  equipped.  The  carbine  on  his  back  was 
of  the  very  latest  make  ;  the  Brownings  in  his  belt  were 
in  good  order.  That  he  knew  well  how  to  use  them, 
Fermal  Bey  had  seen  already.  The  sword  ran  parallel 
to  the  horse's  side,  tightly  strapped  under  the  Arab's 
left  thigh.  There  was  something  beyond  the  common, 


THE  FANTASIA  191 

something  that  inspired  respect,  about  this  warrior, 
which  aroused  the  Turk's  astonishment,  and  caused 
him  to  alter  a  good  many  of  his  preconceived  opinions 
of  his  strange  allies. 

Fermal  Bey  awoke  out  of  his  dream  of  musing 
and  looked  around.  The  spot  they  had  reached 
offered  a  splendid  outlook.  In  the  background  rose 
a  line  of  steep  sand-hills ;  while,  here  and  there 
between  them,  a  few  palm-trees  stretched  their  un- 
kempt heads  to  the  sky.  Through  an  opening  the 
red  crescent  marked  the  whereabouts  of  the  field- 
hospital,  back  there  in  the  south-east. 

Fermal  Bey  put  up  his  field-glass.  The  hill  on 
which  they  stood  sloped  to  the  north ;  at  its  foot 
stretched  a  belt  of  stones,  brightly  polished, 

'  A  dried-up  stream,'  said  Fermal  Bey,  half  aloud. 

Djafar  nodded  Yes. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  stream  the  country  rose 
up  in  terraces.  The  stumps  of  a  few  palm-trees, 
recently  felled,  poked  up  out  of  the  ground.  On 
their  left  were  pitched  a  small  number  of  dirty-look- 
ing shelter-tents,  with  a  section  of  Turkish  soldiers 
grovelling  in  their  shadow.  Right  up  on  the  crest  of 
the  heights  three  men  lay  flat  on  the  ground ;  their 
backs  turned  to  the  observers,  they  stared  to  the 
north.  Not  daring  to  bare  their  heads  in  the  intense 
heat,  they  had  covered  their  red  fezzes  with  sand. 

Djafar  nodded  when  he  noticed  this.  The  fellows 
had  done  wisely.  The  red  colour  leaped  to  the  eye 
against  the  surroundings  of  sand.  He  directed  his 
field-glass  to  the  right.  At  the  foot  of  the  adjacent 
height  lay  still  more  soldiers  under  the  shadow  of 
the  hill.  A  young  lieutenant,  scarcely  more  than  a 


192  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

lad,  strolled  up  and  down  the  river-bed,  smoking  a 
cigarette,  and  hacking  at  the  blades  of  halfa-grass, 
which  grew  around,  with  his  sword.  He  was  obviously 
bored,  for  he  yawned  more  than  once  and  stretched  his 
arms.  To  the  left  the  gully  made  a  sharp  bend,  and 
slipped  out  of  sight  towards  the  north.  At  that  spot 
a  few  soldiers  squatted,  with  their  rifles  between  their 
knees.  They  kept  on  turning  to  the  left  as  though 
talking  to  some  one,  and  when  this  happened,  they 
would  look  up  the  hillside.  From  this,  Djafar  con- 
cluded that  some  of  their  comrades  were  not  far  off, 
on  the  upper  side  of  the  dried  watercourse. 

This,  therefore,  formed  part  of  the  Turkish  position. 

'  And  over  there,  far  away,  are  the  Infidels  ?  ' 
asked  Djafar,  sternly.  '  Can  we  see  them  ?  ' 

'  Scarcely.     During  the  daytime  they  lie  low.' 

Djafar's  field-glass  extended  the  range  of  his  investi- 
gations. Nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  one  sand-hill  after 
another,  with  an  occasional  cluster  of  palm-trees,  and, 
far  away  in  the  distance,  a  misty  haze  that  wrapped 
the  landscape  as  in  a  veil  of  greyish  gold.  Djafar 
shut  up  his  field-glass  and  dropped  it  into  its  case. 

'  And  you  ?  '  he  asked  Fermal  Bey. 

'  I  am  here  to  take  over  the  command  of  that 
company  down  there.' 

'  I  will  go  with  you.' 

They  left  the  small,  ruined  building  and  rode  along 
the  topmost  heights.  One  of  the  sentries  on  the 
opposite  hill  looked  round  and  saw  them.  He  crept 
a  few  steps  backwards,  called  out  a  few  words  in  a 
low  voice,  and  then  waved  a  hand. 

'  Come,  look  sharp  ! '  cried  Fermal  Bey  to  the 
sergeant.  '  They  can  see  us  from  the  other  side  of  the 


THE  FANTASIA  193 

valley.'  And  with  loose  reins  he  galloped  slantwise 
down  the  slope. 

Djafar  smiled.  It  was,  of  course,  imprudent  to  go 
straight  down  at  such  a  rate ;  but  he  could  rely  on  his 
thoroughbred.  And,  sure  enough,  when  Fermal  Bey 
pulled  up  in  the  dry  watercourse,  who  should  be 
standing  there  but  Djafar,  alongside  his  horse. 

The  captain  dismounted  and  introduced  himself  to 
the  young  lieutenant,  who  came  rushing  up,  visibly 
delighted  at  this  interruption  in  the  deadly  monotony. 

'  How  far  are  they  away  ?  ' 

'  About  a  kilometre.  We  exchanged  a  few  shots 
with  their  outposts,  but  it  did  not  amount  to  a  fight.' 

Not  a  word  escaped  Djafar,  who  kept  close  to  the 
officers. 

'  Can  we  see  their  position  ?  '  he  asked. 

The  young  lieutenant  measured  him  with  a  lengthy 
gaze,  winked  with  one  eye,  and  turned  to  the  captain 
for  enlightenment.  That  a  sheikh  stood  before  him 
he  took  for  granted,  but  .  .  . 

Fermal  Bey  gave  the  lieutenant  a  nod. 

'  Come  along  ! '  said  he. 

They  drew  a  few  paces  away  from  the  soldiers, 
who  had  approached  nearer  in  their  curiosity. 

'  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal,'  said  the  captain,  introducing 
the  Arab,  '  the  son  of  Sheikh  Abdallah,  of  whom  you 
must  often  have  heard.' 

The  lieutenant  certainly  never  had,  but  he  smiled 
all  the  same  to  oblige.  The  vanity  of  the  Bedouins 
was  a  matter  of  common  knowledge,  and  he  knew  the 
easiest  way  of  flattering  them. 

'  The  Beni  Hamka  tribe  has  adjourned  the  last 
part  of  its  fantasia  to  the  seat  of  war.' 


194  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

The  young  man  looked  at  the  Arab  with  inquiring 
eyes  ;  he  did  not  understand  him. 

The  captain  explained  the  situation  in  a  few  words. 
The  lieutenant  laughed  merrily,  gave  another  bow,  and 
assured  Djafar  that  he  had  never  heard  of  anything 
like  it  before.  Did  they  seriously  intend  in  broad 
daylight  .  .  .  Well,  a  little  skirmish  would  not  come 
amiss,  life  at  the  front  being  as  dull  as  it  was. 

'  Nothing  ever  happens — absolutely  nothing  ! '  he 
complained,  striving  to  be  as  European  as  possible, 
so  as  to  impress  the  taciturn  Bedouin. 

They  climbed  the  slope  and  crawled  up  on  a  small 
breastwork  which  the  pickets  had  piled  up  with  their 
hands. 

Djafar  looked  round.  Everywhere,  the  same  endless 
wastes  and  barren  solitudes  as  before. 

'  Where  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  Over  there — a  little  more  to  the  left,'  explained 
the  young  lieutenant  fussily.  '  There,  on  this  side  of 
that  clump  of  palm-trees,  they  have  dug  themselves  in. 
But  I  'm  hanged  if  I  know  what  for.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  hill  lies  a  bigger  detachment.  If  we  only  had 
a  cannon  or  two  down  in  the  watercourse  .  .  .  Sidi 
Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal,  don't  hold  your  field-glass  with 
the  lenses  uppermost ;  the  sunshine  might  catch  it. 
An  awkward  thing  happened  only  the  other  day. 
The  first  lieutenant  lay  down  there — you  know,  hidden 
snugly  away,  with  a  few  palm-leaves  over  his  head,  and 
his  nose  stuck  in  the  sand.  But,  presumably,  the  sun 
had  glittered  on  the  lenses  of  his  field-glass.  Anyhow, 
suddenly  a  shot  or  two  went  off.  A  bullet  went  clean 
through  his  left  shoulder.  There  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  take  him  to  the  ambulance.'  And,  with  an  air 


THE  FANTASIA  195 

of  such  ingenuous  self-importance  that  Fermal  Bey 
was  hard  put  to  it  not  to  smile,  the  lieutenant  added  : 
'  You  must  be  prepared  for  that  sort  of  thing,  I  can 
tell  you.  Let  them  say  what  they  like,  it 's  war,  you 
know.'  He  leered  across  at  Djafar,  who  lay  impassive. 
'  I  wonder  if  that  Bedouin  has  taken  it  in  now  ?  '  said 
his  eyes. 

Djafar  scarcely  listened  to  what  was  being  said 
around  him  ;  but,  since  the  talk  was  of  the  reflection  of 
the  sun,  he  covered  the  lenses  with  his  left  hand.  For  a 
while  he  remained  lying  down,  scanning  the  horizon 
slowly  from  left  to  right  with  his  field-glass  and  pausing 
at  certain  places  before  continuing  the  round ;  then 
he  put  up  the  field-glass,  crawled  backwards,  and, 
as  soon  as  he  got  far  enough  below  the  crest  of  the  hill 
to  be  hidden  from  the  north,  he  stood  up. 

'  Now  I  have  got  it,  captain  !  '  Djafar's  voice  had 
a  ring  that  silenced  all  thought  of  objection.  '  Three 
sections  :  one  on  the  height  here,  another  straight 
in  front  of  the  bend  in  the  river-bed,  and  a  third  moving 
forward.'  He  bared  his  left  wrist,  and  looked  at  his 
watch  on  the  strap  round  it.  'It  is  time  for  the  men 
to  start.' 

Fermal  Bey,  who  had  crawled  down  to  him,  gave 
him  a  quick  glance.  The  tone  of  this  unusually 
competent  Bedouin  was  not  to  his  liking.  He  was  on 
the  point  of  inquiring  who  was  in  command  there, 
when  Djafar  forestalled  him,  saying  with  sublime 
composure  : 

'  I  shall  stay  with  my  men  on  yonder  hill.  They 
are  only  a  handful  at  present,  but  more  will  soon  come.' 
He  stood  up  and  went  down  the  slope.  '  Send  the 
sergeant  to  Sheikh  Abdallah  with  the  order  to  advance, 

o  2 


196  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

and  tell  him  to  bring  my  men  with  him  on  his  way  back. 
I  shall  keep  him  with  me,  and  send  him  back  to  my 
father  when  the  right  moment  comes.'  And,  without 
waiting  for  an  answer,  Djafar  jumped  on  his  horse, 
gathered  the  reins  in  his  hand,  and  prepared  to  ride 
away. 

Fermal  Bey  looked  at  him  out  of  the  corners  of 
his  eyes.  Djafar's  proposal  was  the  simplest  and  the 
best.  With  a  shrug  and  a  nod  the  captain  gave  his 
assent. 

Djafar  bowed  his  head  in  farewell.  He  was  quite 
satisfied  with  the  result  of  the  test.  The  captain 
was  a  sensible  man,  with  whom  it  was  possible  to  work 
smoothly.  He  rode  slowly  along  the  river-bed,  beckoned 
to  Sergeant  Esjuk  to  follow  him,  and  in  his  company 
continued  his  journey  to  the  east.  He  resolved  to 
avoid  the  hill. 

'  Captain !  '  The  lieutenant  turned  his  boyish 
eyes  beseechingly  on  his  superior  officer.  '  You  will 
allow  me  to  lead  the  attacking  section,  won't  you  ?  ' 

'  I  was  just  going  to  ask  you  to.  But  you  will 
keep  out  of  range,  unless  you  find  a  particularly  good 
opportunity.  .  .  .  But  there,  you  know  all  about 
that/ 

'  Of  course  !  Many  thanks,  captain  ! '  And,  fearing 
he  had  allowed  his  zeal  to  outrun  his  discretion,  he 
added  by  way  of  explanation  :  '  I  have  never  been 
under  fire  yet.' 

Fermal  Bey  grasped  the  youngster's  hand. 

'  You  can  start,'  he  said  heartily.  '  I  am  to  be 
found  up  yonder,  on  the  crest  of  the  hill.  Good-bye  ! ' 

The  lieutenant  hurried  away  to  take  command 
of  his  section.  The  captain  climbed  once  more  the 


THE  FANTASIA  197 

slope.  As  he  passed  by  the  shelter-tents  he  called  two 
of  the  corporals  to  come  with  him.  Before  he  had  time 
to  regain  his  former  position  behind  the  breastwork, 
he  heard  the  sound  of  men  walking  in  step.  With 
commendable  haste  the  lieutenant  had  got  his  section 
ready  for  marching.  The  captain  gave  a  smile  of 
approval.  It  then  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  not  been 
told  the  lieutenant's  name.  No  matter,  he  could  get 
to  know  that  later  on.  What  was  more  serious,  was 
that  he  had  not  expressly  forbidden  the  plucky  youth 
to  join  in  the  fighting. 

'  Lieutenant ! '  he  cried  down  the  gully, '  you  under- 
stood the  order,  didn't  you  ?  The  Bedouins  carry  out 
the  attack,  you  support  it  with  your  fire.' 

'  Oh,  most  certainly  .  .  .  unless,  of  course,  a  parti- 
cularly good  opportunity  presents  itself.'  Delighted 
as  a  child  at  his  commission,  the  young  lieutenant 
saluted  with  his  sword.  But  he  accelerated  his  steps. 
He  was  in  a  perfect  terror  lest  his  chief,  sent  so  unex- 
pectedly to  the  company,  might  take  some  other 
fancy  into  his  head.  '  Not  to  join  in  the  fighting  .  .  . 
Why,  certainly  not/  he  thought.  '  Except  at  a 
particularly  good  opportunity.'  And  the  lieutenant 
smiled  hopefully.  '  There  !  we  have  rounded  the  bend 
of  the  river-bed,  and  now  the  captain  can't  possibly 
call  to  us.'  He  broke  into  sC  happy  laugh,  like  a 
child.  The  hour  he  had  longed  for,  dreamed  for,  had 
come. 

At  the  summit  of  the  hill  Fermal  Bey  lay  flat  on  the 
sand  and  stared  over  the  landscape.  When  just 
now  he  had  scaled  the  slope  once  more,  he  had  seen 
something  moving  in  the  ruins  on  the  crest  of  the  mount 
on  the  southern  side  of  the  gully.  A  silver-grey 


198  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

lightly  built  horse  stood  waiting  beside  a  heap  of 
stones. 

Djafar,  standing  behind  a  crumbling  wall,  piled 
stone  on  stone,  climbed  atop,  and  then  looked  over  the 
top  of  the  wall.  His  bronzed  face  was  impassive  as 
ever,  but  his  eyes  blazed  and  flashed.  His  busy  brain 
worked  tirelessly. 

Had  his  hour  come  ?  Had  it  really  come  ?  Look  !  a 
few  black  specks  stood  out  suddenly  against  the  yellow 
sand.  Djafar  directed  his  field-glass  on  them.  They 
were  Turkish  soldiers.  The  lieutenant  with  the  big 
boyish  eyes,  who  gave  himself  such  childlike  airs  of 
importance,  had  left  the  river-bed  with  his  section. 
Djafar  watched  them  with  interest. 

Farther  on,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill,  the  ground 
was  as  flat  as  a  pancake.  The  thing  was  to  cross  the 
open  space  and  reach  one  of  the  steep  sand-hills  on  its 
border. 

The  men  crawled  forward,  one  after  the  other.  First 
came  a  bearded,  broad-shouldered  corporal,  showing 
the  way.  Behind  him  followed  the  others,  leaving  a 
broad  furrow  in  the  loose  sand.  On  the  right  of  his 
company  crept  the  lieutenant.  He  raised  his  head 
every  now  and  then  and  spied  about,  after  which  he 
said  a  word  or  two  to  his  men.  The  corporal  at  the 
head,  stood  up  and  bent  double,  ran  at  least  twenty 
paces.  Then  the  next  man  stood  up,  and  immediately 
afterwards  the  next,  and  then  all  the  others  in 
turn. 

Djafar  fancied  he  could  hear  their  panting  right  up 
to  where  he  stood.  In  such  a  heat,  and  with  their 
bodies  bent  at  right  angles,  running  was  an  exertion. 

One  tiny  moment  later  the  men  lay  in  a  row  on 


THE  FANTASIA  199 

the  rising  ground,  that  hid  them  from  the  sight  of  the 
enemy  out  there  to  the  north.  The  young  lieutenant 
raised  himself  up  on  his  arms  and  peered  to  the  front. 
Nothing  led  him  to  suppose  that  the  opposite  side  had 
noted  that  the  attack  had  begun. 

Djafar  counted  up  the  soldiers  in  the  line  on  the 
plain  below.  He  was  about  half-way  through  them, 
when  something  came  into  view  a  little  distance  away 
on  the  left.  He  looked  in  that  direction.  A  larger 
body  of  men  were  seen  marching  in  a  dip  north- 
westwards. The  Beni  Hamka  foot  were  advancing 
on  the  left  out  of  the  long  hollow.  And,  see  !  white, 
waving  burnous,  galloping  horses  with  harness  inlaid 
with  silver,  bright  gun-barrels  and  shining  swords, 
which  glittered  in  the  sun :  Sheikh  Abdallah  was 
riding  with  his  men-at-arms  to  give  battle. 

With  a  swift  glance  Djafar  measured  the  distance 
between  the  small  Turkish  troop  and  the  two  detach- 
ments ;  all  three  had  the  same  objective.  For  a  while 
the  Turks  still  kept  the  shortest  route ;  and  when  Djafar 
had  scanned  the  ground,  he  saw  that  it  was  also  the 
hardest.  Only  a  flat  plain,  with  nothing  but  two  or 
three  stiff  undulations  in  the  sand  to  serve  as  covers. 
Before  the  Bedouins,  on  the  other  hand,  lay  rough, 
broken  ground,  and,  so  long  as  they  stuck  to  it,  they 
were  covered  by  a  line  of  low-lying  hills.  But  the 
hollow  in  which  they  were  advancing  swerved  off  to 
the  north,  and  when  they  got  out  of  it,  then  .  .  . 

On  a  sudden  the  troop  of  Bedouins  began  to  run 
forward.  A  man — it  was  of  course  Belkassem,  the 
bravest  fighter  hi  the  clan,  who  was  leading  the  foot- 
soldiers — pointed  to  the  right  with  his  scimitar,  and  the 
whole  multitude,  with  a  scramble  and  a  bound,  stood 


200  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

on  top  of  a  sloping  hillock  and  disappeared  on  the  other 
side. 

Djafar  instinctively  clenched  his  fists  when  he 
saw  the  bold  movement  so  unexpectedly  and  so 
quickly  carried  out.  But  Belkassem  had  taken  part 
in  many  an  engagement ;  his  courage  was  proved, 
and  he  was  famed  for  his  skill  as  for  his  daring.  The 
old  Sheikh  Abdallah  showed  his  good  sense  in  selecting 
Belkassem,  who  was  the  best  man  to  lead,  after  .  .  . 

The  report  of  a  shot,  fired  from  a  great  distance, 
rang  in  Djafar's  ears. 

It  was  clearly  an  appointed  signal ;  for  all  at  once 
the  scene  changed.  Farthest  away  on  the  left  the  troop 
of  horsemen  spurred  to  the  front  at  full  gallop.  The 
dust  flew  up  and  covered  rider  and  steed  with  its  grey 
veil.  Nothing  to  be  seen  now  but  the  flash  of  their 
steel.  And  then  .  .  .  the  whole  troop  went  roaring 
up  a  hill,  and  away  out  of  sight  over  its  crest. 

Below,  in  the  plain,  the  foot  set  off  at  a  run.  But, 
whereas  they  hastened  to  the  north,  the  horsemen  still 
continued  to  move  westwards.  Belkassem  extended 
his  men  in  a  long  line,  and  the  bare-legged  Bedouins 
rushed  forward  like  mad.  Before  them  lay  the 
rough  broken  ground,  where  good  cover  was  afforded 
them  by  some  wild,  ill-cultivated  gardens  and  by  the 
foundation-walls  of  a  house  which  had  lately  been 
blown  up. 

By  that  time  the  Turkish  section  on  the  right  had 
also  left  its  position  behind  the  low  sand-hills.  Now, 
as  once  before,  the  men  advanced  at  the  double.  On 
this  occasion  their  objective  was  a  cluster  of  palm-trees. 

Djafar's  field-glass  ranged  hither  and  thither  from 
one  of  the  three  detachments  to  each  of  the  others  ;  they 


THE  FANTASIA  201 

were  pushing  forward  to  meet  a  fourth,  of  which  till 
then  he  had  seen  nothing.  But  now  there  reached  him 
on  the  wind  the  report  of  a  crash  of  musketry.  Some- 
where in  front  of  him  the  enemy  lay  concealed,  and 
never  slacked  firing.  Against  .  .  .  Oh,  look  .  .  . 

A  puff  of  smoke  eddied  in  the  air,  and  close  to  the 
ground  came  a  line  of  dim  flashes  ;  they  flamed  out, 
died  down,  and  again  flashed  out.  There  were  the 
Infidels. 

Some  one  touched  Djafar  lightly  on  the  arm.  He 
looked  round,  angry  at  the  interruption. 

'  Mechuel  .  .  .  what  do  you  want  ?  ' 

'  The  men  of  El  Mur,  Ufana,  and  Derdj  are  waiting 
behind  the  hill.  Until  their  own  sheikhs  arrive,  and 
even  when  these  come,  they  will  follow  you.' 

'  Good !  Tell  them  to  stay  where  they  are.' 
Djafar  turned  again  to  the  battle-field.  This  time  his 
field-glass  rested  for  a  long  time  on  a  horseman  far 
behind  in  the  west.  '  What  ?  '  he  muttered,  in  a  voice 
like  the  growl  of  an  enraged  dog.  No ;  he  was  not 
mistaken  :  the  man  towering  at  the  head  of  the  mounted 
column  wore  on  his  head  a  dark  green  turban.  The 
green  colour,  reserved  for  the  use  of  the  lineal  descen- 
dants of  the  Prophet,  was  a  sure  sign  that  the  sheikh 
meant  to  take  the  fighting  in  grim  earnest.  The  sacred 
colour  was  not  abused  for  enterprises  of  lesser  moment. 
'  What  ?  '  cried  Djafar,  yet  again.  The  man  riding  at 
Sheikh  Abdallah's  side  wore  an  exactly  similar  turban. 
It  was  really  the  case  ;  his  good  field-glass  had  not 
deceived  him.  His  brother  .  .  .  the  younger  son  .  .  . 
was  chosen  as  his  father's  successor.  Every  hope  of  a 
change  in  his  prospects  was  shut  out ;  the  thought  of 
future  greatness  miserably  at  an  end.  Djafar  Ibn 


202  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Hamkal,  with  his  tremendous  plans  and  vaulting 
ambition,  had  nothing  left  to  hope  for. 

A  cry,  which  made  Mechuel  start  and  gaze  at  his 
master  in  terror,  burst  from  Djafar's  throat. 

'  Sergeant  Esjuk  ?  '  he  asked  hoarsely. 

'  Present ! '  With  his  hand  to  his  fez,  the  sergeant 
stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  small,  ruined  house. 

'  Ride  as  hard  as  you  can  clap  spurs  to  your  horse, 
to  Sheikh  Abdallah  over  yonder  and  order  him  to 
open  the  attack.' 

'  The  captain  .  .  .' 

'  Asked  me  to  tell  you.  Time  presses  !  Off  with 
you  this  very  instant ! '  And  Djafar  stamped  his  foot 
on  the  ground. 

'  If  the  captain  asked  you  to  tell  me,  all  well  and 
good.'  And  the  sergeant  turned  on  his  heel  and 
hurried  out.  Directly  after,  the  beat  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  was  heard. 

'  Master,  what  are  you  thinking  about  ?  ' 

'  About  what  must  happen.' 

'  And  your  object  ?  '  asked  Mechuel  with  a  crafty 
sidelong  glance. 

'  Wait  and  see.'  It  was  more  a  command  than  an 
answer.  Djafar  turned  his  back  on  his  willing  tool 
and  again  put  himself  in  a  position  to  watch  the 
battle-field. 

On  the  right  the  Turks  had  reached  the  clump  of 
palm-trees  that  formed  their  next  objective.  There, 
for  the  time  being,  they  halted.  Squatting  behind  the 
trunks  of  the  trees,  or  lying  flat  on  the  ground,  they 
were  rapidly  blazing  away  their  cartridges. 

On  the  left  of  them  the  Bedouins  had  collected  in 
smaller  groups.  From  behind  the  foundation- walls  of 


THE  FANTASIA  203 

the  demolished  house  and  out  of  the  thicket  of  the 
gardens,  they,  too,  kept  up  an  incessant  fusillade. 

Djafar  nodded.  Till  now  the  battle  had  turned 
out  as  he  had  expected.  He  estimated  the  distance 
between  the  opposing  lines  at  about  four  hundred 
metres.  The  Turkish  contingent  stood  a  trifle  nearer  ; 
the  Bedouins  a  little  farther  back. 

Out  of  the  trenches  of  the  Italians  there  pelted  a 
never-ending  hail  of  musketry.  The  defenders  were 
vastly  the  inferiors  in  number,  but  it  plainly  never 
entered  their  heads  to  evacuate  their  position.  On 
the  contrary,  their  firing  grew  more  rapid  and  .  .  . 
Djafar  gripped  the  field-glass  tightly  with  both  his 
hands.  Out  there  in  the  sand  a  shell  exploded  behind 
the  Bedouins'  position.  The  ground  was  ploughed  up, 
a  torrent  of  dust  and  soil  whirled  in  every  direction,  an 
angry  lightning  hissed,  and  a  sharp  detonation  rang  up 
to  where  he  watched. 

Djafar  gave  a  quiet,  faint  smile  when  he  saw  that  no 
one  was  injured.  But,  despite  the  misdirected  shot,  he 
felt  uncertain,  undetermined.  What  effect  would  the 
artillery  have  on  the  assailants  ?  To  all  appearance 
his  countrymen  had  not  even  noticed  the  shell.  But 
what  about  the  next  .  .  .  and  the  next  ?  He  wondered. 
Another  shell,  still  farther  away,  struck  the  ground. 
Djafar  smiled  contemptuously.  Was  their  vaunted 
artillery  not  more  dangerous  ?  The  third  shell  ex- 
ploded on  the  edge  of  a  tumbledown  wall.  Stones  and 
sand  eddied  overhead  when  it  burst,  and  ...  no  mis- 
take about  it  ...  this  time  some  men  were  hit  and  .  .  . 
Djafar  clenched  his  hands.  The  next  moment  his  eyes 
flew  to  the  west.  The  horsemen  had  reached  the  palm- 
grove,  and,  better  still,  not  one  of  their  opponents  had 


204  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

detected  them.  And,  for  certain,  the  latter  were  not 
more  than  a  bare  thousand  yards  away  from  the  lines 
of  the  attacking  force.  Close  by  was  a  low  hill.  Once 
past  that,  even  ground  lay  before  them. 

And  at  that  very  moment  a  single  horseman  was 
seen  riding  at  full  speed  towards  the  palm-grove. 
Sergeant  Esjuk  was  a  quick,  keen,  and  able  man  ;  in 
another  minute  or  two  he  would  reach  the  goal. 

'  Good ! '  murmured  Djafar,  and  never  took  the 
field-glass  off  his  messenger. 

The  musketry  now  crashed  out  like  some  strange 
music,  at  once  lulling  and  inspiriting.  In  between 
rumbled  the  dull  thunder  of  the  guns,  punctuated,  when 
least  expected,  by  the  bursting  of  the  shells. 

Djafar's  field-glass  moved  from  left  to  right  and 
back  again.  What  had  happened  before  was  repeated. 
The  Turks  blazed  away  their  cartridges  ;  the  Bedouins, 
to  the  left,  fired  shot  after  shot,  and  .  .  .  The  field-glass 
stopped  on  the  palm-wood,  which  Sergeant  Esjuk  had 
now  reached.  Something  immense,  something  green, 
flashed  into  sight ;  the  flag  of  the  tribe  was  seen  waving 
above  the  multitude.  Djafar  listened  with  all  his 
ears.  Was  not  that  .  .  .?  Yes.  With  the  monotonous 
firing  commingled  a  muffled  sound.  No  one,  previously 
unacquainted  with  it,  would  have  been  at  all  likely  to 
have  detected  its  meaning.  But  Djafar  heard  it  and 
understood.  It  was  Zared  beating  the  tribal  drum. 
With  his  left  hand  he  hammered  out  an  endless  roll  on 
the  one  side ;  while,  between  the  pauses,  he  cudgelled 
the  upper  end  with  his  right  knuckles.  The  blows  fell 
with  such  force  that  the  drum  sobbed  and  whined. 
The  time  grew  quicker.  Djafar  fancied  he  saw  the 
sweat  streaming  down  Zared's  swarthy  face. 


THE  FANTASIA  205 

The  green  flag  flew  high  in  the  air.  A  wild, 
blood-curdling  cheer  rose  towards  the  crests  of  the 
palm-trees.  Beni  Hamka's  men  were  riding  to  the 
assault. 

The  Turkish  section  reached  a  clump  of  palms  ; 
not  a  single  man  had  been  lost. 

'They  have  been  napping  over  there,'  laughed 
the  lieutenant  to  an  old  corporal  at  his  side. 

The  corporal  nodded.  He  was  a  broad-shouldered 
man  with  a  bristly,  grizzled  moustache  overhanging  his 
mouth.  His  eyes  peered  out  stolidly  beneath  the  half- 
closed  lids,  and  he  had  not  an  idea  in  his  head.  He  had 
fought  against  rebels  in  Arabia  and  in  Syria;  he  had  been 
shifted  from  garrison  to  garrison.  In  the  end  he  had 
stuck  fast  here  in  Tripoli.  He  was  a  puppet,  an 
automaton.  Tell  him  to  go,  and  he  went ;  cry  out 
'  halt,'  and  he  stopped.  He  took  no  interest  in  anything. 

'  Sight  at  four  hundred  metres  ! '  cried  the  lieutenant 
excitedly. 

The  men  had  begun  to  shoot  already.  Every  now 
and  then  there  came  a  crack,  as  the  Italian  bullets 
bored  into  the  palm-trunks. 

'  They  are  shooting  too  high ! '  shouted  the 
lieutenant  to  the  corporal. 

The  other  nodded.  He  was  kneeling  behind  a 
palm-tree,  and,  for  his  part,  he  never  fired  until  he 
had  taken  careful  aim.  He  had  smelt  powder  more 
often  than  he  could  count ;  and,  if  questioned,  could 
have  told  stories  of  hundreds  of  engagements.  But  his 
superior  officer  asked  him  nothing,  and  he  himself  had 
forgotten  the  combats.  Why  think  of  what  is  past  ? 
Automatically  he  loaded  his  rifle,  took  aim,  and  fired  ; 
never  slackening. 


206  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

The  lieutenant  rose  up  on  his  arms  and  looked  across 
at  the  Italian  position. 

'  They  think  we  are  perched  in  the  trees  overhead.' 
He  laughed  merrily,  ironically.  '  I  can  hear  their 
shots  whistling  in  the  palm-leaves.' 

The  corporal  could  not  see  the  jest.  He  gazed  at 
his  superior  officer  with  reverent  affection.  Who  could 
help  liking  the  lad  ?  He  never  bullied  his  men,  and  a 
common  soldier  never  gave  him  the  regulation  salute 
but  he  got  paid  back  with  a  brotherly  nod  of  the  head. 

'  Couldn't  we  have  a  try  now  to  get  within  arm's 
reach  of  them  ?  '  he  shouted  into  his  neighbour's  ear. 

The  corporal,  with  exasperating  composure,  mea- 
sured the  distance  up  to  the  Italian  trenches.  Then 
he  glanced  deliberately  across  to  the  Bedouins  concealed 
in  the  broken  ground.  And  then  he  shook  his  head. 

The  lieutenant  shrugged  his  shoulders  irritably.  Of 
course,  No — never  anything  but  No — whenever  there 
was  any  fun  to  be  had.  If  only  he  had  known  for 
certain  what  a  favourable  opportunity  was.  Look  ! 
a  shell  bursting  out  yonder  !  Now  the  artillery  had 
been  pushed  forward  on  the  other  side.  Surely,  this 
time  they  might  press  on  and  greet  the  gunners 
with  a  volley  ? 

'  Corporal !  .  .  .  now  's  our  chance,  eh  ?  '  But  the 
corporal  shook  his  head  again,  telling  him  with  a 
nod  to  lie  quiet. 

Oh,  confound  this  automaton  that  could  only 
answer  No  to  every  question !  The  lieutenant  was 
seized  with  rage  against  him,  as  sudden  as  it  was 
irrational.  And  .  .  .  what  now  ?  Ah,  yes,  another 
shell !  Every  pulse  in  his  body  began  to  tingle  ;  his 
temples  beat  as  if  something  were  knocking  inside  them, 


THE  FANTASIA  207 

fast  and  hard.  And  now  .  .  .  Surely  his  brains  reeled  ? 
Was  he  ill  ?  The  fit  passed  immediately ;  but  .  .  . 
How  was  a  fellow  to  keep  his  head  clear  in  such  a  devil 
of  a  row  ?  Weren't  the  Turks  banging  away  as  if  they 
were  stark  mad,  and  the  Bedouins,  yonder,  wasting 
their  ammunition  as  though  they  had  inexhaustible 
supplies  ?  The  Italians  didn't  spare  their  ammunition 
either ;  but  .  .  . 

The  corporal  respectfully  gave  his  lieutenant  a 
gentle  nudge  with  his  elbow.  That  meant :  '  Look 
out !  Why  don't  you  keep  under  cover  like  a 
sensible  fellow  ?  ' 

'  What 's  the  matter  ?  '  growled  the  lieutenant, 
who  would  not  understand.  The  waiting  made  him 
irritable.  Hallo  !  that  shell  went  off  in  the  very  thick 
of  the  Bedouins.  And  they  jumped  up,  too.  Did  they 
mean  to  fly  ?  No  ;  the  bulk  of  them  lay  still  and  went 
on  firing.  But  what  if  they  were  to  begin  to  shell  his 
men !  What  should  he  say  in  answer  to  his  superior 
officer  if  he  alone  survived  ?  His  brain  reeled ;  his 
temples  hammered.  Answer  ?  But  what  the  deuce 
was  he  to  answer  to  ?  And  when  he  asked  the  corporal, 
who  had  been  in  so  many  battles  before,  he  only  got  a 
shake  of  the  head  in  reply.  But,  then,  he,  of  course, 
had  no  responsibility  to  face  .  .  .  Very  well,  then, 
but  if  the  men  advanced  without  any  word  of  com- 
mand from  him ;  what  if  they  .  .  .  Hallo !  The 
Bedouins  were  charging. 

'  Praised  be  Allah !  .  .  .  Allah !  .  .  .  Allah !  .  .  .' 

The  lieutenant  gripped  the  butt  of  his  revolver  with 
all  his  might.  The  agony  of  uncertainty  had  vanished. 
With  headlong  strides  he  dashed  forward  over  the  level 
sand. 


208  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

On  both  sides  of  him  ran  his  men.  They  had 
ducked  their  heads  between  their  shoulders ;  some 
even  shielded  their  faces  with  their  left  arms.  Not  much 
protection  in  that.  The  lieutenant  laughed  out  loud, 
and  then  .  .  .  then  again  his  sight  swam.  He  couldn't 
see  a  thing ;  he  reeled  in  the  air ;  his  feet  .  .  .  No ;  he 
had  found  his  feet  again.  His  chest  panted,  he  ran  so 
hard  ;  his  hand  tightened  convulsively  on  the  revolver- 
butt.  If  only  that  uncanny  mist  would  clear !  His 
forefinger  pressed  the  cock,  and  the  revolver  went  off 
with  a  bang !  Yes,  most  certainly,  he  was  storming 
the  enemy's  position,  and  quite  right  too  !  Forward  ! 
Allah  !  Allah  !  Forward  !  A  deafening  roar  :  the  air 
hummed  again ;  the  earth  quaked  as  if  it  would  split 
asunder  beneath  the  soles  of  his  feet.  Wan  flames 
flickered  unsteadily,  he  knew  not  where ;  hot  winds 
swept  over  the  field  and  tore  the  mist  in  pieces — as 
rough  hands  might  rend  a  veil.  The  hammering 
boomed  in  his  temples. 

And  then  he  saw.  There,  twenty  yards  away  from 
him,  stood  the  Italians.  They  had  crowded  together, 
behind  the  trenches,  in  two  bodies.  Their  rifles  rained 
down  bullets.  They  huddled  close  to  one  another ;  they 
looked  pale  .  .  .  Allah  !  Allah  !  An  officer  stood  by 
the  first  group,  stooping  head  foremost.  His  Browning 
cracked.  And  he  was  the  target.  The  lieutenant's  lips 
parted  ;  his  teeth  glittered  like  the  fangs  of  a  beast  of 
prey.  An  overmastering  impulse  to  scratch  and  bite 
and  slay  possessed  him.  '  Thou  dog  ! '  he  cried  to 
the  enemy's  officer.  '  Thou  dog  !  I  am  coming  !  .  .  . 
Oh ! '  A  burn,  as  if  red-hot  iron  were  being  pressed 
against  his  chest.  He  stumbled,  tottered  on  a  step. 
Again  the  smart  in  his  breast.  They  had  got  the 


THE  FANTASIA  209 

better  of  him  ;  the  iron  burnt  itself  into  his  body  to 
do  him  to  death.  Down  upon  him  dropped  a  pall  of 
impenetrable  mist ;  it  felt  so  curiously  cold  just 
round  the  burn.  There  was  a  crash,  a  roar,  as  if 
the  whole  heavens  fell  in  suddenly  .  .  .  His  forehead 
struck  the  ground ;  he  was  ...  he  was  .  .  .  the 
platoon  ...  his  responsibility  .  .  .  But,  it  was  a 
favourable  opportunity.  .  .  .  '  Forward  ! ' 

The  old  corporal,  who  had  stood  by  the  lieutenant 
all  along,  uttered  a  roar  of  fury.  See  !  there  fell  the 
friendly  youngster  who  was  always  hail-comrade-well- 
met  with  him.  Why,  only  a  day  or  two  ago  he  had 
even  made  the  corporal  a  present  of  a  whole  handful 
of  cigarettes !  And  now  .  .  .  out  of  the  long-dried-up 
well  in  his  heart  there  bubbled  up,  suddenly,  some- 
thing passionate  and  strong.  His  forefinger  crooked 
itself  round  the  trigger ;  his  hand  was  of  a  piece  with 
the  butt,  and  he  ran  forward  at  the  top  of  his  speed, 
his  rifle  levelled  straight  in  front  of  him.  And,  behold  ! 
bullet  and  bayonet  found  their  mark  ;  he  had  avenged 
the  youngster.  They  were  wont  to  show  their  staunch 
comrades  this  service,  were  the  old  veterans  who  had 
grown  grey  in  the  field. 


Sheikh  Abdallah  stood  under  the  palm-trees  at  the 
head  of  his  men.  The  haughty  smile  on  his.  lips  bore 
witness  to  his  scorn.  Too  much  honour  was  being  shown 
to  the  little  band  of  Infidels  over  yonder.  Was  he  to 
trouble  himself  about  the  orders  of  a  Turkish  busybody, 
who  would  have  conveyed  the  notion  that  he  under- 
stood the  game  better  than  everyone  else  ?  But 
he  had  pledged  his  word,  and  that  he  must  keep.  He 


2io  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

was  still  Abdallah  Ibn  Hamkal,  the  sheikh  of  the  Beni 
Hamka,  he  supposed. 

At  his  father's  side  sat  Mansur  on  a  snow-white 
steed.  He  kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  sand-hill, 
in  the  rear  of  which  they  were  waiting. 

From  the  other  side  came  the  sound  of  firing. 
Sometimes  the  reports  came  few  and  far  between ;  then 
on  a  sudden  they  rang  out  in  a  volley,  and  the  din 
became  quite  indescribable.  Mansur  knit  his  brow  in 
thought.  He  had  never  heard  anything  like  it.  The 
Infidels  were  brave  men ;  nothing  suggested  that  they 
would  give  way  to  the  enemy.  So  much  the  better ; 
they  had  come  there  not  to  be  spectators  of  a  flight,  but 
to  bear  a  part  in  the  fighting.  The  fame  of  the  Beni 
Hamka  fantasia  would  travel  far.  It  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that,  perhaps,  the  Turks  were 
charging  in  order  to  claim  the  victory.  He  urged  his 
trembling  horse  a  few  paces  forward.  He  wanted  to 
see  ... 

Sheikh  Abdallah  held  out  a  restraining  arm. 

Mansur  led  his  horse  back  to  his  place.  Neither 
father  nor  son  said  a  word. 

A  hundred  paces  away  a  shell  exploded  on  the 
right  of  the  horsemen. 

The  horses  snorted  and  neighed,  the  men  glanced 
aside,  wondering  and  amazed.  Only  the  sheikh  sat 
unmoved,  as  though  it  were  no  business  of  his. 

Mansur,  curious,  turned  his  eyes  to  the  right.  Ah, 
so  that  was  a  greeting  from  the  guns  !  He  followed  his 
father's  lead  and  gave  a  careless  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 
They  aimed  badly  ;  why,  there  were  no  assailants  out 
there  on  the  plain  !  At  that  very  moment  he  met  his 
father's  eyes.  Pride  and  love  shone  in  them,  and  some- 


THE  FANTASIA  211 

thing  else  as  well.  A  flood  of  feeling  welled  up  in  the 
son's  heart ;  he  warmed  to  his  father.  He  would  have 
liked  to  reach  out  his  hands  and  tell  him  how  fond  he 
was  of  him. 

By  and  by  Sheikh  Abdallah  turned  round  in  his 
saddle.  Out  of  its  white  wrappings,  which  he  let  fall  to 
the  ground,  he  took  something  and  held  it  up  above 
his  head.  All  present  saw  it ;  it  was  a  green  turban. 

'  My  son  ! '  called  out  the  sheikh. 

Blushing  with  delight,  Mansur  bowed  towards  him. 
He  had  understood.  Sheikh  Abdallah  took  off  his 
son's  white  head-dress  and  in  its  place  put  on  the  green 
turban.  With  crafty  calculation,  he  chose  just  this 
moment  for  appointing  his  successor. 

The  men  around  him  thought  only  of  the  symbolical 
meaning  underlying  the  action,  and  cheered  approval. 
If  Djafar  had  had  supporters  among  them,  they  were 
thenceforward  dumb. 

Sheikh  Abdallah's  hands  slipped  down  from 
Mansur's  head  to  his  shoulders,  and  rested  there  in 
blessing.  For  a  while  father  and  son  looked  deep  into 
each  other's  eyes.  A  sob  of  gratitude  broke  from  the 
young  man's  breast. 

'  Now  you  know/  said  Sheikh  Abdallah  to  the  men 
standing  round  him. 

The  applause  deepened.  Eager  hands  fingered 
the  rifle  triggers ;  the  men  itched  to  fire  a  shot  in 
token  of  their  joy.  The  sheikh  stretched  up  his  right 
hand  in  refusal.  The  men  crouched  in  their  saddles. 
Of  course,  they  admitted,  such  a  thing  was  not  just 
then  appropriate. 

The  second  shell  burst  out  yonder  in  the  sand. 

The  sheikh  gave  no  sign  this  time  either ;  he 

p  2 


212  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

quietly  exchanged  his  white  turban  for  the  green 
head-gear  which  he  had  by  him. 

'  God's  blessing  be  upon  you  ! '  cried  an  old  Bedouin, 
and  flung  up  his  arms  to  heaven  in  rapture. 

'  Allah  akbar  !  Allah  akbar  !  '  mumbled  the  men, 
looking  at  one  another,  their  eyes  blazing  with  pride. 
Where  else  in  the  whole  of  Africa  was  there  a  tribe  that 
rode  into  battle  behind  two  green  turbans  ?  It  was 
not  his  descendants  who  led  the  men  of  the  Beni  Hamka 
into  the  combat,  but  the  Prophet  himself.  And  from 
four  hundred  throats  there  rang  out  a  cry,  irresistible 
and  jubilant :  '  Beni  Hamka  !  Beni  Hamka  ! ' 

'  Zared !  .  .  .  the  drum  ! '  said  Sheikh  Abdallah, 
when  the  rejoicing  had  subsided. 

Zared,  lean  and  small,  settled  the  drum  on  the  horse's 
neck.  With  the  long  stick  in  his  left,  he  struck  a  few 
blows  on  trial.  Then  began  the  muffled,  never-ending 
roll.  It  sounded  like  the  humming  and  buzzing  of 
millions  of  insects. 

'  Like  angry  bees,  isn't  it  ?  '  said  a  Bedouin  with 
a  bristly  beard. 

'  Angry,  indeed  ! '  replied  a  middle-aged  warrior,  and 
shook  his  rifle  threateningly.  '  Angry  ! '  he  repeated 
in  hoarse,  gurgling  accents,  as  if  his  throat  were 
suddenly  compressed. 

Zared  cudgelled  his  drum  harder  and  harder  with 
his  left  hand.  And,  by  and  by,  his  right  fell  on  the 
hide  as  well. 

The  men  flung  up  their  heads  ;  their  eyes  began  to 
flash. 

Zared  stooped  over  the  drum  and  ground  his  teeth 
in  the  wood. 

'  Allah  akbar  !    Beni  Hamka  ! '    It  sounded  hollow, 


THE  FANTASIA  213 

overburdened,  as  a  cry  of  pain  wrung  from  panting 
throats. 

Zared  sat  up  again  in  the  saddle.  His  burning  eyes 
never  left  the  drum,  on  which  his  teeth  had  left  their 
mark.  He  struck  a  few  quick  blows  with  his  right  fist. 

'  Allah  !    Allah  'kbar  !     Beni  Hamka  !    Fight  ! ' 

The  old  Bedouin,  who  had  called  down  God's 
blessing  upon  the  sheikh  on  his  donning  the  green 
turban,  cried  out  that  a  horseman  was  approaching 
from  the  south-east. 

Sheikh  Abdallah  looked  in  that  direction,  and 
recognised  Sergeant  Esjuk.  With  sovereign  uncon- 
cern as  to  what  was  to  happen,  he  gathered  his  reins 
together  and  cried : 

'  Allah  ! — may  his  name  be  praised  now  and  for  ever 
— guide  our  footsteps  !  Forward  !  ' 

'  Allah  akbar  !  Beni  Hamka  ! '  Their  lungs 
breathed  at  their  ease  ;  their  throats  shouted  sonorous 
and  strong.  The  men  standing  at  the  end  of  the  line 
wheeled  round  to  the  wings,  to  right  and  left.  In  a  long, 
extended  line  the  men  of  the  Beni  Hamka  charged  the 
hill  and  rushed  down  its  northern  side.  The  centre, 
in  the  rear  of  Sheikh  Abdallah  and  his  son,  slowed,  in 
order  to  give  the  wings  time.  Above,  the  commander 
waved  the  green  flag.  Last  of  all  came  Zared  with  his 
drum. 

With  a  cry  that  rent  the  air  the  troop  moved 
swiftly  to  the  front.  The  eyes  of  all  were  bent  on  the 
enemy's  trenches.  The  Infidels  were  not  preparing 
for  flight ;  besides,  it  would  have  been  too  late  if  they 
had  been.  And  just  look !  .  .  .  over  there,  their 
comrades  on  foot  went  bounding  forward.  Sheikh 
Abdallah  nodded.  Belkassem  was  a  man  of  courage, 


214  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

and  knew  what  he  was  after.  The  sheikh  bestowed  a 
moment's  thought  on  this  old  desert -ranger.  He  was  a 
fanatic,  who  loved  his  God  with  his  whole  soul,  and  who 
blindly  obeyed  every  word  that  fell  from  Abdallah  Ibn 
Hamkal's  lips.  Had  he  told  the  man  to  sharpen  his 
dagger,  and  then  mentioned  Djafar's  name,  Belkassem 
would  have  understood  him.  Better  the  peace  of  death, 
in  Sheikh  Abdallah's  opinion,  than  discord  between  sons 
and  disunion  in  the  tribe.  But  enough  of  that.  ... 
Over  there  his  men  were  running  like  mad  dogs. 
They  had  a  long  start,  but  the  horsemen  would  quickly 
overtake  them.  The  Turks,  too,  were  afoot  and  charging 
to  the  fore.  The  sheikh  swung  his  sword  above  his 
head  ;  he  allowed  no  one  to  get  in  front  of  him.  That 
would  have  been  an  indelible  disgrace. 

'  Allah  'kbar  !  Beni  Hamka  ! '  The  shouts  grew 
hoarser ;  but  the  eyes  blazed  in  the  bronze-coloured 
faces,  and  the  fists  gripped  their  swords  as  though  they 
had  been  the  limbs  of  the  detested  enemy.  The  horses 
snorted,  the  harness  creaked,  the  stirrups  jingled, 
metal  rang  on  metal.  Dust  and  sand  swirled  round  the 
horsemen,  who  tore  ahead  in  a  delirious  race. 

Sheikh  Abdallah  looked  at  his  son.  With  shoulders 
squared  and  eyes  shining  with  the  lust  of  battle,  Mansur 
Ibn  Hamkal  charged  forward,  in  order  to  stand  his 
trial  as  a  man  and  show  himself  worthy  to  be  the 
chieftain  of  a  great  and  powerful  tribe.  A  beautiful 
smile  lit  up  his  father's  stern  features.  At  that  very 
moment  came  a  loud,  deafening  report.  A  flame  shot 
up  from  the  ground,  splintering  its  surface,  and 
knocked  down  two  horses.  Sheikh  Abdallah's  eagle- 
eye  ranged  over  the  battle-field  and  his  voice  rose, 
crying : 


THE  FANTASIA  215 

'  Charge  !  Faster  ! '  A  shell  from  the  Unbelievers 
had  fallen  in  the  middle  of  the  left  wing  ;  others  would 
follow.  And  over  there,  like  dark  spots  on  the  sand, 
some  of  Belkassem's  men  were  left  for  dead.  '  Faster  ! 
Forward  !  Charge  !  ' 

The  horses  flew  onward,  the  battle-cries  resounded, 
defiant  and  challenging ;  the  drums  threatened  to 
burst. 

Sheikh  Abdallah  drew  himself  up  to  the  full  height 
of  his  lofty  stature,  and  gripped  the  hilt  of  his  sword 
with  a  firmer  grasp.  In  a  few  moments  the  horsemen 
would  be  on  a  line  with  the  foot-soldiers ;  another 
moment  later,  and  their  objective  would  be  reached. 
The  rifles  of  the  Unbelievers  spat  fire  and  lead  on 
every  side.  But  all  their  last  efforts  were  vain ;  their 
courage  could  not  save  them.  The  semicircle  was 
closing  mercilessly  round  their  position.  The  horses 
would  dash  over  them ;  they  would  trample  them  under- 
foot, grind  them  in  pieces,  and  wipe  them  out.  .  .  . 

'  Allah  akbar  ! '  The  words  burst  in  triumph  from 
the  sheikh's  lips. 

Mansur  galloped  on  at  full  speed.  He  was  more 
curious  than  anything  else,  and  his  eyes  flared  about 
him  restlessly.  Over  yonder,  Belkassem's  men  were 
hastening  to  the  selfsame  mark  as  himself,  and  behind 
them  others  came  pounding  along.  Mansur  dug  his 
heels  into  his  charger's  flanks,  it  was  going  too  slowly. 
When  he  looked  down,  it  was  to  see  how  the  ground 
beneath  him  slipped  by,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  What  was 
the  matter  over  there  ...  on  the  left  ?  A  number  of 
voices  were  uplifted  in  pain  and  fury,  and  the  horses  were 
neighing  so  piteously.  Oh,  another  shell  had  burst  ! 
Vengeance  on  the  Unbelievers  !  He  looked  quickly  to 


216  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

the  right,  and  met  his  father's  eyes.  He  felt  proud 
and  overjoyed  at  the  thought  that  one  day  he  was  to 
be  the  successor  of  this  intrepid  sheikh  whose  holiness 
had  made  him  famous  as  a  marabout.  He  must  perform 
some  brilliant  feat  of  arms,  requite  his  elevation  in 
the  only  way  which  .  .  .  What !  .  .  .  Djafar  ...  his 
brother  ?  If  mollahs  and  father  would  have  it  so,  Djafar 
had  just  got  to  submit.  His  brain  whirled  as  though 
a  crowd  of  thoughts  were  clamouring  to  be  heard  then 
and  there.  An  intoxicating  dream  of  happiness  held 
him  spellbound.  He  felt  giddy  ;  the  ground  gave  way 
under  him ;  the  clouds  overhead  slipped  away.  It 
seemed  as  if  his  horse  hung  hi  endless  space.  He  saw 
nothing,  heard  nothing  more  of  the  battle  that  awaited 
him.  Round  about  all  was  silent  and  blank.  But 
in  front  of  him  it  grew  brighter.  From  a  certain  point 
whole  sheaves  of  yellow,  sunlit  rays  poured  out ; 
and  in  this  radiant  centre,  upon  a  throne  of  gold,  sat 
a  young  maiden,  veiled  in  bright-coloured  silk  and 
decked  with  pearls  and  precious  stones  from  head  to 
foot.  Her  arms  hung  straight  down  at  her  sides  ; 
her  eyes,  the  twin  suns  whence  came  the  new  light, 
beamed  with  meek  tenderness  and  with  adoring  love. 

'  Risja  !  ' 

A  crash  close  beside  him,  as  though  the  world 
collapsed.  The  air  shook,  and  he  fell  into  a  bottomless 
abyss.  All  round  and  about  him  flames  shot  up, 
yellow-red  and  scorching,  and  in  his  body  countless 
sharp  knives  were  at  work.  With  the  speed  of  "lightning 
they  tore  open  his  side,  hacked  off  his  left  arm  from 
the  trunk,  and  slit  open  his  left  leg  from  hip  to  ankle. 
Pain  and  terror  weltered  down  upon  him  with  unen- 
durable pressure.  He  would  have  thought  it  over. 


THE  FANTASIA  217 

But  there  was  nothing  he  could  hold  on  to ;  no  starting- 
point — nothing  !  He  was  seized  with  the  fear,  with  the 
horror,  of  the  unknown  that  no  one  can  understand. 

In  a  moment  of  terrifying  comprehension  he  felt 
his  horse  break  down  under  him.  Something  warm 
and  thick  and  sickening  overflooded  him.  The  pains 
were  there  again ;  the  knives  cut,  the  flames  burnt. 
He  drew  a  deep  breath ;  an  odd,  stale,  disgusting 
smell  nearly  choked  him.  He  closed  his  eyes  wearily  ; 
his  head  had  found  a  firm  resting-place.  His  lips 
opened  in  a  heart-rending  outcry : 

'  Risja  .  .  .  our  happiness  .  .  .  ! ' 

Then  something  happened  which  he  could  neither 
see  nor  yet  grasp. 

The  babel  raged  from  end  to  end  ;  the  ground  burst 
in  pieces  that  whirled  up  to  heaven  in  clouds  of  sand 
and  dust ;  the  air  was  rent  in  shreds. 

From  Sheikh  Abdallah's  throat  there  rose  a  cry  like 
the  roar  of  a  wounded  lion.  At  one  and  the  same 
moment  the  old  man  wanted  to  pull  his  horse  up  in 
its  stride,  and  wished  it  had  wings  to  bear  him  faster 
onward.  He  must  rescue  his  son,  and  yet  at  the  same 
time  he  longed  most  passionately  to  avenge  him  .  .  . 
at  once,  at  that  very  moment.  The  horse  reared  up, 
danced  on  its  hind  legs,  came  down  again,  and  flew  on. 

A  green  plume  of  feathers  fluttered  past  the  sheikh. 
A  shot  singed  his  burnous  ;  his  sword  fell,  slipped  along 
the  barrel  of  a  rifle,  struck  against  something  hard,  and 
stuck  fast.  Once  more  the  blade  flashed  up,  whistled 
down  and  hewed  the  air.  The  horse  swung  round 
and  bolted.  Blinded,  giddy,  and  with  a  rankling 
feeling  that  something  had  occurred  which  was  incon- 
ceivable and  which  he  yet  must  understand,  Sheikh 


218  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Abdallah  was  borne  away.  He  groaned  aloud  with 
pain,  and  drove  his  teeth  furiously  into  his  under-lip. 

The  uproar  around  had  grown  beyond  his  compre- 
hension. His  nerves  cringed  under  its  weight ;  his 
body  rocked  to  and  fro  in  violent  convulsions.  He  bit 
his  lip  through,  and  forced  himself  to  be  calm.  He 
saw  and  understood. 

His  warriors  were  in  headlong  flight.  Their  horses 
raced  madly  in  every  direction  :  to  the  western  hill  over 
which  they  had  ridden  to  the  battle  ;  to  the  south 
along  the  valley  through  which  they  had  crept  to 
their  defeat ;  to  the  east  where  cover  there  was  none. 
The  men  sat  huddled  up  in  their  saddles.  Bereft 
of  their  senses,  they  had  no  other  thought  than  to 
get  away  .  .  .  only  away !  And  the  foot-soldiers 
stampeded  .  .  .  stampeded,  like  the  others. 

'  Beni  Hamka  ! '  The  bitter  cry  fell  from  the 
sheikh's  bleeding  lips. 

He  looked  away  over  the  field  of  battle.  In  an 
endless  line  the  Italian  soldiers  came  rushing  up  towards 
him.  The  bayonets,  fixed  on  the  rifles  in  their  hands, 
glittered  in  the  sunshine.  An  eruption  had  flung 
them  up  to  the  surface  of  the  earth  ;  a  moment  before 
they  had  been  the  merest  handful ;  now  they  could  be 
counted  by  thousands.  The  wave-like,  irregular  line 
extended  on  the  one  side  far  beyond  the  left  wing  of 
the  Beni  Hamka ;  on  the  other,  it  reached  past  the 
insignificant  body  of  Turkish  troops.  Sheikh 
Abdallah's  eyes  opened  wide  with  wonder,  his  face  was 
haggard,  and  he  kept  on  sucking  at  his  blood-stained 
lips. 

With  a  roar  the  long  line  swept  towards  him.  The 
plumes  in  the  soldiers'  helmets  bobbed  up  and  down  in 


THE  FANTASIA  219 

time  to  their  steps ;  the  bayonets  rose  and  fell.  Every 
now  and  then  a  man  dropped  down.  Sometimes  he 
never  moved ;  sometimes  he  stood  up  again  and 
hurried  on.  All  ran  with  mouth  wide  open ;  they  ran 
shouting.  Their  cries  rang  louder.  The  crackling 
of  the  musketry  was  drowned  in  the  noise  of  their 
voices ;  and  the  guns  .  .  .  they  were  silent. 

The  sheikh's  horse  stretched  its  neck  and  whinnied 
uneasily. 

Abdallah  Ibn  Hamkal  forced  it  to  stand  still.  The 
rider  had  forgotten  something  or  other — something 
which  he  must  needs  remember.  Not  the  ignominious 
flight  of  his  tribe  :  that  was  not  it.  ...  Oh,  all  of 
them  had  not  taken  to  their  heels  after  all !  Over 
yonder,  on  his  right,  about  a  hundred  rifles — no  more — 
went  off  with  a  crack. 

'  Belkassem ! '  cried  the  sheikh,  his  heart  eased  of 
a  heavy  burden.  The  stubborn  old  desert-ranger  had 
saved  the  clan's  honour.  With  a  remnant  of  his 
men  he  had  effected  a  lodgment  in  the  trench  they  had 
carried.  Sheikh  Abdallah's  satisfaction  gave  way  to 
a  chilling  apprehension.  They  were  only  a  handful, 
he  saw — a  tiny  body  of  undaunted  fighters — against 
more  than  a  thousand  assailants  bearing  down  upon 
them. 

The  long  line  came  on  with  a  roar.  It  was  now  so 
close  that  the  sheikh  could  distinguish  the  men's 
features.  There  was  no  end  to  the  row  of  faces, 
expressionless,  streaming  with  sweat. 

The  eyes  stared  uncannily,  as  if  lifeless ;  the  lungs 
panted  with  the  terrific  effort  occasioned  by  this  race 
in  stifling  clouds  of  dust  and  in  the  scorching  sun. 
But  a  will  that  doubled  and  redoubled  their  strength 


220  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

drove  them  on  and  on.  The  hoarse  voices  yelled 
tirelessly ;  the  men  in  their  frenzy  drew  inexorably 
nearer  and  nearer. 

All  on  a  sudden  the  whole  line  dropped  to  the 
ground.  A  series  of  shrill  bugle-calls  shrieked  through 
the  air,  and  then  the  firing  broke  out.  Angry  flashes 
blazed  out,  and,  in  the  roll  of  musketry,  all  else 
vanished. 

The  trench,  to  which  Belkassem  and  his  men 
stuck  with  tooth  and  nail,  was  turned  into  a  boiling 
kettle.  A  hurricane  of  lead  poured  into  it.  Sand 
and  gravel  were  tossed  up,  bullets  pelted  down  like 
hailstones.  And,  to  complete  the  horror,  shells  ex- 
ploded in  the  furrow.  A  few  men  crawled  out  of  the 
trench,  and  made  desperate  efforts  to  dodge  the  shower 
of  lead.  Most  of  them  were  laid  low,  but  some  of  them 
reached  the  rough,  broken  ground  from  which  the  last 
assault  had  been  made. 

Everything  happened  in  the  space  of  a  few  seconds. 
Sheikh  Abdallah  shook  his  head  over  this  appalling 
quickness.  The  Italians  had  flurig  themselves  down 
fifty  yards  away  from  the  trench  round  which  the 
battle  raged ;  and  the  soldiers  were  at  hand  already. 
The  last  of  the  Turks  could  be  seen  running  towards 
the  palm-grove  on  the  right,  and  Belkassem's  Be- 
douins were  again  driven  out.  There  lay  an  unpre- 
cedented power  in  this  counter-attack,  and,  thanks 
to  their  discipline  and  good  shooting,  a  sureness  and 
confidence  in  the  proceedings  which  carried  the  day. 

A  stifled  cry  of  anguish  broke  from  the  sheikh's 
throat. 

'  Mansur ! '  Allah  had  chastened  him  for  his  inso- 
lence in  having  wished  to  remove  the  fantasia  to  this 


THE  FANTASIA  221 

place.  Allah  ! — may  His  name  be  praised  now  and  for 
ever  !  He  spurred  on  his  charger  to  confront  the  line 
which  still  spat  shot  and  shell.  A  bullet  whizzed 
past  his  turban.  Sheikh  Abdallah  smiled  scornfully 
at  himself  and  his  far-reaching  plans.  A  shell  of  the 
Infidels  had  been  their  undoing.  All  hope  was  gone. 
He  settled  himself  in  his  saddle,  raised  his  head,  and 
brought  his  horse  to  a  walk.  Were  it  the  will  of  Allah 
that  he  must  fall  here,  Abdallah  Ibn  Hamkal  would  not 
flinch  aside. 

Behind  the  hill  to  the  west,  the  Bedouins  dis- 
appeared who  had  fled  in  that  direction  ;  but  single 
horsemen  were  still  scuttling  across  the  plain,  and  in 
every  hollow  and  furrow  small  parties  of  foot  sought 
shelter  from  the  devastating  fire. 

With  proud  contempt  for  all  that  was  taking  place, 
Sheikh  Abdallah  brought  his  horse  to  face  the  living 
crater  that  vomited  the  hail  of  lead.  His  son's 
dead  body,  or  death  for  himself,  had  been  his  cry  a 
moment  before  ;  his  watchword  now  was :  Mansur 
and  death. 

Over  yonder  lay  something  green  on  the  ground — 
the  flag  of  the  tribe. 

'  Beni  Hamka,  where  is  now  thy  power,  and  where 
the  bravery  of  thy  warriors  ?  ' 

What  now  ?  Did  the  Infidels  intend  to  push  for- 
ward their  cavalry  in  order  to  wipe  their  adversaries 
completely  out  ?  No ;  horsemen  on  the  point  of 
charging  never  sat  their  saddles  in  that  way.  Oh, 
'twas  the  guns — those  infernal  guns  !  .  .  . 

'  Mansur,  my  son  .  .  .' 

The  green  turban  lay  blood-stained  and  tattered 
beside  the  thoroughbred,  whose  ribs  protruded  through 


222  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

the  flesh.  Mansur  had  fallen  on  his  back,  with  one  leg 
under  his  charger's  body.  About  his  pallid  lips  a 
doubtful  smile  still  played. 

Sheikh  Abdallah  leaped  from  the  saddle  and 
began  to  free  his  son's  dead  body.  Mansur  Ibn 
Hamkal's  remains  should  not  fall  a  prey  to  prowling 
hyenas. 

Twenty,  or  perhaps  thirty,  paces  in  front  of  him 
stood  the  Italian  riflemen.  A  few  heads  were  raised  ; 
eyes  strained  their  sight ;  brains  endeavoured  to 
grasp  what  the  solitary  Arab  was  doing  out  there  in 
the  shower  of  bullets.  Something  cruel  and  malicious 
flashed  in  every  face.  The  figure  all  in  white  was  an 
excellent  target.  Bang  !  went  the  rifles  yet  again. 

Heedless  of  the  downpour,  the  sheikh  took  his 
dead  son  in  his  arms. 

'  Beni  Hamka's  hope  !  Allah,  thy  will  be  done,  not 
mine.' 

An  officer  rose  up  in  the  line  of  riflemen. 

'  The  rascal  means  to  jeer  at  us  !  And  you  fellows 
shoot  like  regular  bunglers  ! '  A  pair  of  huge  eyes, 
blazing  with  anger,  flashed  upon  the  lonely  man  out 
there  on  the  plain.  A  thick  moustache,  carefully 
waxed  at  the  tips,  was  caught  between  thumb  and 
finger  and  twisted  up  under  a  small,  round  nose,  so  that 
a  row  of  strong,  even  teeth  lay  bare. 

'  Hand  me  a  rifle  ! ' 

Sheikh  Abdallah  set  the  lifeless  body  across  the 
neck  of  the  horse  that  was  scenting  the  air  uneasily. 

'  The  flag  ?  No ;  Beni  Hamka's  future  was  a 
thing  of  the  past.'  He  got  into  the  saddle.  For 
several  seconds  he  sat  bolt  upright  and  stared  the 
enemy  in  the  face.  They  had  seen  how  a  whole  tribe 


THE  FANTASIA  223 

had  taken  to  flight,  outnumbered  as  well  as  over- 
powered by  the  superiority  of  their  arms.  But  the 
sheikh  of  the  tribe  would  take  his  time  in  quitting  the 
scene  of  the  defeat.  He  would  go  step  by  step — 
Mansur  and  death.  Allah  ! — blessed  be  Thy  holy  name 
— do  unto  me  what  thou  deemest  good  !  ' 

'  Such  insolence  !  He  defies  us ;  he  laughs  ! '  With 
head  flung  back  and  every  muscle  in  his  body  strained 
tight,  the  Italian  officer  ran  a  few  steps  forward. 

Sheikh  Abdallah  noticed  it  not.  Deliberately  he 
swung  his  charger  round,  and  kept  it  at  a  walk. 

'  Another  rifle  .  .  .  cartridges  ! '  roared  the  officer 
in  his  rear.  He  took  steady  aim,  as  if  on  the  range, 
and  fired. 

A  convulsive  shiver  passed  through  Sheikh 
Abdallah's  lofty  frame.  From  behind  a  sharp-pointed 
object  had  bored  its  way  through  a  knee-joint  and 
splintered  the  knee-cap.  He  laughed  grimly,  scorn- 
fully, contemptuously.  Hundreds  of  rifles  had  singled 
him  out  as  a  mark.  He  heard  the  bullets  whirring  past. 
Like  loud  cracks  of  a  whip  they  sounded  in  the  air.  No 
sooner  was  one  shot  fired,  than  two,  three — no,  ten 
more  fell  about  him  on  the  ground. 

See,  there  lay  the  tribal  drum,  broken  into  shivers. 
Zared's  open  mouth  and  cloven  forehead  yawned 
up  at  him.  Round  the  dead  man  were  strewn  horses, 
men,  arms  .  .  .  The  sheikh  nodded  quietly.  Allah's 
wrath  had  fallen  heavily  on  the  Beni  Hamka.  In 
his  eyes  now  was  a  question.  '  Was  it  ...  was  it  the 
enmity  between  his  sons  .  .  .  ?  ' 

'  Bismillah  ! '  he  said  out  loud.  One  of  the  blows  of 
the  whip  struck  him  on  the  shoulder.  It  burned  like 
fire,  and  then  felt  cold  as  ice.  '  Bismillah  ! ' 


224  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

The  horse,  bleeding  at  the  loins,  bore  his 
master  over  the  sand.  The  bullets  fell  thick  around 
them. 

'  My  lord  .  .  .  over  here ! ' 

Sheikh  Abdallah  raised  his  eyes  from  his  son's  dead 
face. 

'  Belkassem  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  my  lord  ! '  A  half-naked,  sinewy  Bedouin 
jumped  up  close  to  the  horse's  head,  urged  the  animal 
into  a  quicker  pace  and,  holding  fast  to  the  stirrup, 
ran  alongside  himself.  '  That  was  a  great  fight/  he 
panted.  '  Twenty  of  my  men  are  sleeping  their  last 
sleep  over  yonder.  And  of  the  horsemen  .  .  .  just 
as  many  .  .  .  what  ?  To  the  left  .  .  .  behind  the 
sand-hill !  Allah  be  praised,  we  are  now  in  safety  ! ' 

'  My  son  ! '  whispered  Sheikh  Abdallah,  absent- 
mindedly. 

'  Mansur  ?  '  Belkassem  stooped  forward,  he  had 
seen  nothing  else.  He  wore  a  blood-stained  rag  knotted 
round  his  head.  '  Dead  ?  .  .  .  and  you  yourself,  my 
lord  ?  Wounded  ?  '  Belkassem  turned  round  to  his 
warriors.  Achmed  and  you,  Hadjubu,  support  the 
sheikh,  he  is  falling  !  So  ...  so  ...  slowly  !  Let 
not  the  green  turban  slip  from  his  head  !  Rend  your 
garments,  Beni  Hamka's  warriors  !  Strew  ashes  on 
your  heads  !  The  sheikh  and  his  son  .  .  .  Make 
room  .  .  Make  room  for  Abdallah  Ibn  Hamkal 
and  his  dead  son.' 

A  sigh,  that  sounded  like  a  groan,  burst  from 
Djafar's  breast.  The  thunder-cloud  which  all  on  a 
sudden  had  swooped  down  upon  the  small  Italian 
detachment  had  been  dispersed.  Torn  in  ribbons, 


THE  FANTASIA  225 

it  drifted  helplessly  away.  The  lonely  observer  looked 
in  astonishment  over  the  battle-field. 

The  exhibition  of  strength,  as  sudden  as  over- 
whelming, had  been  imposing.  Those  thousand  soldiers 
and  more,  all  rising  out  of  the  earth  at  once  and  charging 
forward  in  a  long,  scythe-like  line,  had  swept  every- 
thing before  them.  They  had  never  pressed  right  up 
to  the  horsemen,  nor  had  that  been  necessary ;  their 
mere  presence  had  given  the  struggle  a  new  aspect. 
The  assailants  had  then  sunk  into  the  earth  again  and 
lain  panting  and  thirsting  for  vengeance  on  the  yellow 
sand.  Their  rifles  had  vomited  fire  and  bullets.  Every 
living  creature  in  front  of  them  had  fallen.  And  as  if 
the  rifles  had  not  been  enough,  the  guns  had  been 
dragged  into  action.  They  had  crashed  and  boomed  ; 
they  had  mutilated  and  slain.  The  shells  had  ploughed 
the  earth  up  ;  the  hail  of  lead  whistling  through  the  air 
had  whipped  the  ground  on  every  side.  Dense  clouds 
of  dust  eddied  round  the  fugitives  who,  in  panic- 
stricken  haste,  were  now  hurrying  from  the  battle- 
field .  .  .  away,  away,  the  farther  the  better. 

Djafar  had  watched  each  incident  with  his  field-glass. 
He  had  seen  his  fellow-countrymen  fall  and  flee,  and 
had  remained  hard,  cold,  and  resolute.  A  defeat  could 
be  wiped  out ;  if  the  assailants  had  been  superior  to  the 
defenders,  they  would  have  won  the  day.  He  leaned 
against  the  wall  and  turned  a  searching  glance  on  the 
battle-field. 

In  the  west  the  foremost  Bedouins  were  slipping 
out  of  sight  over  the  hill  with  the  palm  wood  atop. 
Here  and  there  a  man  fell  and  never  got  up  again. 
But  the  majority  outran  death. 

'  Bah ! '  Djafar  shrugged  his  shoulders ;  the  business 

0 


226  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

was  not  nearly  so  dangerous  as  he  had  thought.  The 
tribal  flag  was  lost,  the  drum  smashed  in  pieces.  No 
matter,  his  father  too  must  go,  and  make  room  for 
the  new  times,  the  new  men,  the  new  methods.  The 
bulk  of  the  horse  had  been  saved,  and  that  was  the 
main  thing.  A  flight  was,  anyhow,  better  than 
extermination. 

Over  yonder  rode  a  solitary  horseman  with  .  .  . 
was  it  a  wounded  or  a  dead  man  that  he  carried  in 
front  of  him  across  the  horse's  neck  ?  What  ?  The 
green  turban  .  .  .  His  father  and  his  brother ! 
Djafar  looked  up  to  the  cloudless  sky  f  and  his  eyes 
also  framed  a  question. 

'  Who  has  triumphed  ?  '  He  rapped  out  the 
answer  :  '  I  have.'  He  looked  down  upon  the  lonely 
horseman,  half  curious,  half  compassionate.  And  with 
ironical  pity  he  added  :  '  The  fantasia  ! '  The  very 
next  second  he  clenched  his  hands.  How  could  a 
man  famous  for  his  craftiness  have  committed  that 
unpardonable  blunder  ?  All  the  better,  '  it  cleared  the 
way  for  himself.'  Djafar  nodded  thoughtfully  .  .  . 
'  the  way  ...  for  himself  .  .  .' 

The  Bedouins  on  foot  had,  comparatively  speaking, 
got  off  with  a  whole  skin.  True,  they  had  left  a  good 
many  dead  and  wounded  in  the  rifle-pit  which  they 
had  carried,  but  beyond  on  the  field  but  few  dark 
specks  had  fallen  to  rise  no  more.  Like  startled  birds 
they  ducked  in  the  trough  of  the  sea  of  sand,  and 
crept  on  and  on. 

Djafar  scanned  thoughtfully  the  long  line  of 
Italians.  The  bullets  over  yonder  flew  far  too  high. 
The  soldiers  did  not  rise  high  enough  above  the  breast- 
work. Their  first  thought  was  to  shield  themselves  ; 


THE  FANTASIA  227 

their  desire  to  damage  their  foe  came  in  a  bad  second. 
Upon  the  fierceness  wherewith  this  desire  was  satisfied 
depended  the  enemy's  losses.  Djafar  smiled  proudly. 
Those  were  the  facts  of  the  case  beyond  a  doubt. 
And  as  here,  so  in  other  battles.  The  tremendous 
expenditure  of  ammunition,  the  ear-piercing,  nerve- 
shattering  uproar,  all  that  was  common  to  all  battles. 
He  had  seen  and  learned. 

Besides,  the  Italians  had  every  occasion  to  be 
prudent.  The  remnants  of  the  Turkish  section,  a 
dozen  rough  ragamuffins  bathed  in  sweat,  retreated 
anything  but  fast.  In  each  tiny  dip  in  the  ground  four 
or  five  men  would  squat  down,  fire  off  their  cartridges 
and  then  retire  step  by  step,  whilst  their  comrades  in 
some  other  hollow  poured  in  shot  after  shot. 

Djafar's  smile  grew  approving.  That  was  the  way 
to  do  it.  What  magnificent  fighting  men  those  Turks 
were,  to  be  sure.  So  far  from  leaving  their  wounded  in 
the  lurch,  they  held  the  enemy  in  check.  As  they 
slipped  down  into  the  deep  valley,  Djafar  laughed 
aloud. 

Hardly  had  the  last  of  the  Turks  disappeared  than 
a  volley  at  once  resounded  above  his  head  ;  the  reserves 
had  waited  until  the  plain  was  clear  to  open  fire  on  the 
Italians. 

Once  again  Djafar  nodded.  Over  yonder  the 
assailants  had  been  scattered  like  chaff  before  the  wind, 
but  here  they  were  supported  by  their  comrades,  found 
help  and  cover.  A  Turkish  company  on  the  right  began 
a  heavy  fire ;  on  the  hill  opposite  to  him  the  soldiers 
never  ceased  shooting  and  from  the  river-bed  below 
him  rose  a  crackling  fusillade. 

'  I  see,'  thought  Djafar,  and  turned  at  once  to  the 

e  2 


228  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Italian  lines.  The  effect  of  the  sudden  downpour,  so 
nicely  timed  and  so  well  directed,  was  at  once  apparent. 
The  left  wing  of  the  Italians,  being  the  most  exposed  to 
it,  was  drawn  back  a  little,  while  the  right  was  pushed 
forward.  The  line  of  riflemen,  indeed,  stretched  up 
to  the  palm-grove  whence  the  Bedouins  had  charged 
down  upon  them.  But  into  the  recesses  of  the  hills 
and  valleys  they  dared  not  advance,  and,  consequently, 
the  engagement  came  to  a  standstill.  A  few  shells 
struck  down  an  enemy  now  and  then,  but  the  discharge 
of  musketry  gradually  ceased,  first  on  the  far-distant 
right,  then  in  the  centre,  and,  in  the  end,  on  the  left 
wing.  The  Turks,  in  shooting,  took  the  cue  from  their 
opponents.  All  they  had  wished  to  do  was  to  check 
the  attack.  As  soon  as  they  had  succeeded  in  that 
purpose,  they  stopped  firing. 

The  spectator  lowered  the  field-glass.  He  had  seen 
and  learned. 

The  sun  had  dipped  low  in  the  west.  Djafar  looked 
at  the  watch  on  his  wrist-strap.  After  which  he  took 
a  last  look  at  the  distant  horizon.  The  stillness  after 
the  din  of  the  battle  had  an  oppressive  effect.  Djafar 
smiled  his  father's  haughty  smile,  flung  back  his  head 
and  left  the  ruins. 

Outside  lay  Mechuel  under  the  tumbled-down  walls. 
He  had  thrown  himself  flat  on  his  back  and,  as  if 
hypnotised,  stared  blankly  to  the  north  with  his  one 
eye. 

'  Wait  there  for  me  ! '    And  Djafar  strode  past. 

Some  hundred  Bedouins  had  collected  on  the  hill. 
Whether  squatting  side  by  side  upon  their  haunches 
or  lying  huddled  together  on  their  faces,  they  never 
took  their  eyes  off  the  enemy  in  the  distance. 


THE  FANTASIA  229 

'  Wait  for  me  down  yonder  ! '  ordered  Djafar,  and 
walked  on.  The  silver-grey  thoroughbred  followed 
him  as  a  dog  follows  its  master.  The  man  in  command 
went  along  the  northern  slope  of  the  hill. 

Fermal  Bey  came  towards  him  in  conversation  with 
the  little  fat  major. 

'  Bloodshed  nowadays  is  a  mere  detail/  said  Assan 
Bey,  lecturing  in  his  usual  loquacious  fashion.  '  But 
nothing  can  be  done  without  it,  so  people  think. 
Europe,  you  see,  is  sitting  at  home,  as  in  an  amphi- 
theatre, watching  our  efforts  with  all  her  eyes.  She 
would  hear  about  us,  she  would  gloat  over  bloodshed 
and  slaughter  retailed  in  her  newspapers.  She  would 
never  forgive  us  if  we  cheated  her  out  of  the  minutest 
telegram.  It  wouldn't  suit  her  book  to  forget  us. 
Well,  to-morrow  we  will  send  her  a  gentle  reminder. 
To-morrow  Europe  shall  learn  that  Italy  has  gained 
another  great  victory  over  us.  Europe  will  be  grateful 
to  us  and  requite  our  goodwill  with  a  benevolent  smile. 
Come,  come,  unknit  your  brow,  captain  !  Europe's 
goodwill  can  be  of  a  good  deal  of  use  to  us.  Just  look 
here  ! '  He  showed  a  note-book  which  he  held  in  his 
hand.  '  The  freights  are  going  up  all  the  world  over.  I 
have  got  a  little  schedule  here.  When  Europe  begins  to 
feel  the  pressure  of  the  rise  in  prices  on  her  own  case, 
she  will  be  driven  to  put  on  her  thinking-cap.  This 
time  it  is  no  fault  of  ours,  and  so  perhaps  the  benevo- 
lence she  feels  for  us  will  be  expressed  in  a  strong 
opinion  in  our  favour.  If  we  can  only  keep  her  interest 
in  our  affairs  alive,  there  is  nothing  we  may  not  expect.' 
The  major  looked  at  his  comrade  with  self-satisfaction. 
'  Give  us  time,  and  you  shall  see  ...  time,  I  say  .  .  . 
time  .  .' 


230  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Djafar,  who  knew  Turkish,  gave  ear.  Was  there 
something  to  be  gleaned  here  ?  Well,  he  would  have  a 
talk  with  the  fat  major  later  on.  Assan  Bey  seemed 
only  too  ready  to  let  his  tongue  wag.  With  a  slight 
bow  of  the  head  Djafar  strode  past  the  two  officers. 

The  major  looked  after  the  Bedouin. 

'  Do  you  know  him  intimately  ?  ' 

Fermal  Bey  shook  his  head. 

'  Humph,  I  don't  like  the  way  he  behaves.'  Assan 
Bey  made  a  dissatisfied  face.  '  What  I  don't  like  at  all 
.  .  .  well,  listen  .  .  .'  and,  theorising  as  usual  he 
added  :  '  The  problem  of  our  opponents  can  be  solved, 
but  that  of  our  allies  .  .  .?  I  can  only  warn  you  from 
making  the  attempt.' 

Djafar  went  past  a  group  of  soldiers  who  had  thrown 
themselves  recklessly  on  the  ground.  Panting  with  the 
exertions  of  the  retreat,  with  their  blood  still  boiling 
from  the  fury  of  the  engagement,  they  lay  about  in  the 
strangest  positions.  Some  were  even  asleep.  Facing 
the  men  sat  an  old  corporal  with  expressionless  eyes. 
His  grizzly  moustache  was  all  bristles  and  hung  down 
over  his  mouth ;  his  yellow  teeth  were  clenched  on 
a  filthy  rag,  which  he  was  trying  to  knot  round  his 
wounded  left  arm. 

Djafar  walked  on.  Two  guns  had  been  moved 
forward,  with  their  muzzles  sloping  upwards.  If  the 
Italians  ventured  to  come  any  nearer,  they  would  have 
been  given  an  unpleasant  surprise.  And  on  the  hill  on 
the  right  several  hundred  Turks  were  lying  in  wait. 
Should  he  extend  their  line  with  his  Bedouins  .  .  .  ? 

'No.'  Djafar  smiled  ambiguously.  He  stood  still 
for  a  while,  walked  haughtily  to  the  rear,  and  then 
passed  on.  The  very  next  moment  he  was  in  the 


THE  FANTASIA  231 

saddle  and  away  at  full  gallop.  He  had  seen  and 
learned. 

Outside  in  front  of  the  ambulance  a  dozen  of 
wounded  Bedouins  lay  on  the  sand.  A  Turkish  surgeon 
went  from  man  to  man  and  instructed  a  few  attendants 
as  to  what  in  each  case  they  were  to  do.  He  had  just 
dressed  Sheikh  Abdallah's  wounds  and  left  him  by 
himself  in  an  hospital  tent. 

A  little  farther  on  the  warriors  of  the  tribe  had 
encamped  themselves ;  they  looked  a  disheartened 
little  band.  No  one  uttered  a  word  ;  all  stared  blankly 
at  the  tent  doorway.  In  the  forefront  sat  Belkassem. 
His  eyes  were  nailed  on  the  entrance,  and  his  brains 
kneaded  a  single  thought.  When  he  asked  if  there  was 
any  hope  for  the  sheikh,  the  surgeon  could  give  but 
one  reply — a  shrug. 

Djafar  leapt  from  the  saddle,  told  the  horse  to  stay 
where  it  was,  and  then  went  straight  to  the  tent  door. 

The  surgeon  stepped  in  his  path  to  stop  him,  but 
Djafar  brushed  him  on  one  side. 

'  My  father  ! ' 

'  Are  you  ?  Well,  of  course,  it  will  be  all  the 
same  in  the  end.'  The  surgeon  stood  still  and  Djafar 
passed  by. 

He  stepped  into  a  dusky  anteroom.  On  a  wooden 
bench  lay  Mansur's  corpse. 

Djafar  gazed  on  his  brother  with  an  expression  of 
curiosity  mixed  with  pity.  He  had  neither  loved  nor 
hated  his  brother.  The  wise  man  looks  not  at  the 
instrument  with  which  one  would  strike  him  ;  he  looks 
for  the  hand  that  would  deal  the  blow. 

From  an  adjoining  room  came  a  faint  groan. 
Djafar's  bowed  figure  rose  up  as  if  on  springs.  He 


232  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

dashed  aside  a  curtain  and  stood  at  his  father's 
death-bed. 

Sheikh  Abdallah  lay  stretched  on  a  camp  bedstead. 
The  eyes  in  the  blanched  face  smouldered  with  fever. 
On  his  head  he  still  wore  the  green  turban.  The  de- 
scendant of  the  Prophet  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
go  into  the  presence  of  his  ancestor  wearing  the  badge 
of  honour. 

With  a  glance  Djafar  caught  his  father's  eyes  and 
compelled  them  to  fix  themselves  upon  his  own.  For 
a  while  father  and  son  looked  at  each  other.  It  was  the 
father  who  was  the  first  to  turn  away.  The  son  drew 
a  few  steps  nearer.  Calm  and  unmoved,  he  first  took 
off  his  own  head-dress,  and  then  he  reached  out  his 
hand  to  his  father's  green  turban. 

A  violent  convulsion  shook  the  sheikh's  body 
when  he  felt  the  touch.  Immediately  after  he  lay 
there  impassively  and  allowed  his  son  to  do  as  he 
thought  best. 

Djafar  set  the  green  turban  on  his  shaven  crown. 
Nothing  betrayed  the  triumph  of  which  he  was  sensible  ; 
no  ill-considered  movement,  not  so  much  as  a  tremble 
indicated  that  he  had  reached  the  first  goal  of  his  life. 
His  eyes  dwelt  with  deliberate,  but  searching  intensity 
on  his  father's  rigid  face,  with  the  merest  dash  of 
reproach  added. 

'  Do  you  hear  me  ?  ' 

Once  more  his  father  averted  his  eyes ;  he  would 
elude  the  fascinating  look. 

'  I  will  avenge  you.'  Djafar  pressed  the  turban 
firmly  down  on  his  head.  For  a  few  moments  more 
his  eyes  rested  on  his  father.  Then  with  a  shrug  he 
left  the  room. 


THE  FANTASIA  233 

Sheikh  Abdallah  looked  after  his  son.  It  was  his 
own  youth  that  vanished  behind  the  curtain.  Purpose- 
ful, unyielding  as  ^steel,  swift  as  a  lion  crouched  to 
spring  .  .  .  There  went  the  man  who  had  appointed 
himself  heir  to  the  honour  of  his  ancestry,  quitting 
his  father's  death-bed  and  striding  past  his  brother's 
corpse. 

Outside  by  the  tent  door  Djafar  stood  still  with 
crossed  arms. 

Belkassem  confronted  him  with  an  expression  of 
enmity  in  his  eyes.  But  when  he  'saw  the  green 
turban,  he  leaped  to  his  feet  and  salaamed  low ;  he 
felt  disconcerted. 

'  My  lord 

'  Yes  ;  I  am  your  lord.  Serve  me  faithfully  and  I 
will  forget  what  once  you  were.' 

Behind  the  old  desert-ranger  the  mourning  Bedouins 
hau  also  risen.  A  shout  of  surprise  and  joy  burst  from 
the  lips  of  many  of  them. 

Djafar  raised  his  hand,  commanding  silence. 

'  You,  Belkassem,'  he  began  in  a  low  voice, '  look  to 
the  burial  of  my  brother's  body.  In  the  hollow  on  the 
hither  side  of  the  palm-grove  you  will  make  the  grave, 
and  place  it  to  east  and  west,  as  prescribed  by  rule. 
And  about  him  you  will  bury  the  fallen.  When  the 
angel  Gabriel  comes  down  this  night  from  the  highest 
heaven,  he  must  find  the  Beni  Hamka  warriors  ready. 
Go  !  As  for  you  others,  behold  your  sheikh.  As 
Gabriel  and  the  djinns  who  accompany  him,  so  I  too 
expect  to  find  you  ready.  Vengeance  for  Abdallah 
Ibn  Hamkal  and  my  brother  Mansur  ! ' 

In  the  black  eyes  of  his  followers  a  fierce  flame 
flared  up,  their  hands  were  clenched  to  fists,  their  lips 


234  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

opened  to  shout.  Once  more  Djafar  raised  his  right 
hand. 

'  Disturb  not  the  peace  of  the  dying  within  there. 
But  think  incessantly  of  revenge.  Let  that  thought 
so  eat  into  your  mind  that  it  can  never  be  effaced  ! — 
Silence  !  One  word  more.  Put  your  trust  in  me  !  I 
will  procure  you  revenge.  The  time  and  the  means, 
that  is  my  business  ;  you  have  only  to  obey.  Put  your 
faith  in  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal,  Beni  Hamka's  sheikh.' 

With  a  leap  that  none  but  he  had  dared,  Djafar 
flew  into  the  saddle.  Yet  he  did  not  go  away  at  once, 
but  rode  up  to  his  surgeon. 

'  The  old  man  is  in  great  pain,'  he  whispered. 

'  I  can  do  nothing  in  the  matter.' 

'  A  sleeping-draught  ?  ' 

'  Willingly,  sheikh,  if  you  wish  it.' 

'  I  do  wish  it.  He  must  not  be  disturbed  by  others. 
He  has  nothing  more  to  say.'  Dj afar  gathered  the  reins 
in  his  hands  and  galloped  on.  He  knew  that  behind 
him  all  eyes  were  shining  with  hope  and  satisfaction, 
that  once  more  the  warriors  cherished  confidence  and 
courage.  He  felt  contented. 

The  green  turban  was  greeted  with  loud  jubilation 
by  the  men  of  El  Mur,  Ufana  and  Derdj. 

Djafar  drew  rein  and  raised  his  right  hand.  The 
cheers  were  hushed. 

'  Your  greeting  rings  pleasantly  in  my  ears.  I 
take  it  as  a  proof  that  in  future  you  will  follow  no 
one  but  me.' 

'  We  will.    We  will.' 

'  Then  I  promise  you  battle,  victory  and  plunder, 
but  neither  for  to-day,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  yet  for 
next  month.  I  shall  choose  the  time  and  place,  when 


THE  FANTASIA  235 

both  are  most  favourable.  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal,  the 
descendant  of  the  Prophet,  Beni  Hamka's  sheikh, 
asks  for  your  trust,  for  your  obedience,  your  fidelity. 
By  Allah,  the  lord  of  heaven  and  earth,  swear  ! ' 

'  We  swear.  Allah  akbar  !  We  swear  you  obedi- 
ence and  fidelity.' 

'  I  thank  you.'  The  silver-grey  took  a  prodigious 
leap,  rushed  through  the  air  and  nimbly  alighted, 
far  beyond  the  circle  that  hemmed  it  in.  Like  an 
arrow  it  shot  along  the  hillside  in  the  gathering 
twilight. 

Behind  the  horseman  hundreds  of  eyes  shone  with 
admiration,  as  they  all  gazed  after  him.  He  was  so 
unlike  their  own  sheikhs.  Who  could  ride  or  fence 
better  than  he,  who  .  .  .  ?  Fidelity  to  their  clan,  to 
tradition,  to  ...  A  tangle  of  thoughts  and  questions 
arose  in  their  brains.  What  had  they  done  ?  What 
did  they  want  to  do  ?  Was  it  not  best  that  they  should 
all  follow  one  leader,  now  when  the  enemy  had  invaded 
the  country  ?  But  the  tribes  .  .  .  their  own  sheikhs  ? 
Then,  as  if  they  would  silence  their  scruples  and  drown 
their  anxiety,  first  one,  and  then  all  shouted  : 

'  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal !    Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal ! ' 

Mechuel  sat  on  the  crest  of  the  hill.  He  nursed 
his  chin  on  his  knee  and  listened  to  the  cheers  in  the 
valley  below. 

Djafar  stopped  beside  him  and  leaped  from  the 
saddle. 

'  Place  yourself  where  you  can  see,  should  anyone 
come,'  he  began  hastily.  '  That 's  right.  To-day  you 
will  procure  the  dress  of  a  carrier  or  handicraftsman. 
In  that  attire  you  will  slink  to  the  east,  past  the  lines 
of  the  Infidels.  Afterwards  you  will  turn  round  to  the 


236  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

north  and  make  straight  for  the  coast.  Thence  it  will 
be  an  easy  matter  for  you  to  get  within  the  gates  of 
Tripoli.' 

Mechuel  started  back  and  reached  out  his  hands 
in  protest. 

'  You  will  do  as  I  say.  In  Tripoli  you  will  seek  out 
Hassan  Karamanli,  whom  our  people  call  the  Traitor. 
And  this  you  will  say  unto  him :  "  Greetings  to  the  Wise 
and  Foreseeing  from  Djafar  Ibn  Hamkal,  Sheikh  and 
Marabout.  The  Bedouins  of  the  southern  and  western 
parts  of  the  country  follow  Sheikh  Djafar,  and  his  word 
is  their  word.  With  his  eyes  he  has  seen  what  thy 
friends  can  perform,  and  now  he  understands  thy 
way  of  dealing."  And  then  you  will  add  :  "  What  do 
thy  friends  the  Italians,  offer  for  Sheikh  Djafar's 
neutrality  ?  " — Hassan  Karamanli  will  understand  its 
value.  You  will  wait  for  his  answer  and  bear  it 
to  me.' 

'  Treachery  .  .  .    Master  .  .  .  ' 

'  Fool !  You  have  only  one  eye,  but  something  you 
must  yet  see  with  it.  Treachery  ?  No,  but  it  shall  be 
done  !  By  Allah — praised  be  His  name — it  shall  be  a 
great  and  a  glorious  treachery.  You  are  thinking  of 
the  Turks.  Must  I  laugh,  or  must  I  pity  you  ?  The 
Turks  !  If  Tripoli  becomes  an  Italian  province,  it 
will  not  be  because  we  are  beaten.  Our  fate  will  be 
decided  not  here,  but  in  Europe.  Why  ?  Until  now 
the  children  of  the  Prophet  believed  the  world  to  be 
guided  by  truth  and  justice.  They  have  been  shown 
that  the  guiding  stars  of  the  peoples  of  Europe  are 
cunning,  greed,  lies,  and  frauds.  Let  us  become 
Europeans  and  follow  the  example  they  have  set  us. 
Let  us  plot  treason.  Therefore  it  is  better  that  we 


THE  FANTASIA  237 

husband  our  strength  for  another  crisis,  wait  quietly 
and  prepare  for  war.  Now  do  you  understand 
me  ?  ' 

Mechuel  shook  his  head  sulkily. 

'  Our  time  will  come,'  continued  Djafar.  '  They 
are  blinded  by  their  pride,  and  by  their  envy  of  one 
another  they  are  divided  among  themselves.  Every 
success  achieved  by  the  one  is  a  defeat  for  his  neigh- 
bour. And  whilst  they  are  grabbing  fresh  booty 
beyond  the  frontiers  of  Europe,  they  keep  an  anxious 
and  mistrustful  eye  upon  one  another.  Their  envy 
turns  to  madness,  and  their  greed  is  a  pestilence.  .  .  . 
I  tell  you,  Mechuel,  Europe  trembles  on  the  brink  of 
self-slaughter !  You  simpleton  of  little  faith,  the 
hour  is  near.  So  soon  as  war  breaks  out  between  any 
two  European  Powers,  all  the  others  must  join  in ; 
they  cannot  help  themselves.  I  promise  you  wives 
and  treasures.  You  body-snatcher  and  kidnapper  of 
children,  you  dog  and  son  of  a  dog,  you  are  the  best 
person  to  deal  with  the  thieves  over  yonder.  Go  and 
bring  me  within  the  week  the  answer  I  desire  ! ' 

'Master  .  .  .' 

'  Be  silent  and  obey ! '  Djafar's  hand  flew  to  the 
revolver  in  his  belt.  '  Be  of  use,  you  dog,  or  else  .  .  . 
What !  are  you  thinking  of  the  reward  ?  In  the  harem 
that  I  have  inherited,  live  two  widows.  Do  you  crave 
for  more  ?  Horses,  camels,  money  ?  You  shall  have  all. 
Go  and  whisper  your  lies  hi  the  ears  of  the  Unbe- 
lievers. Or,  better  still,  repeat  only  their  own  words : 
greater  lies  there  could  not  possibly  be.  Go  ! ' 

Subdued  by  Djafar's  passion,  Mechuel  salaamed 
and  slunk  with  drooping  head  down  the  hillside. 

The  brief  twilight  was  on  the  wane.     In  the  west 


238  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

the  blazing  sun  flushed  crimson  as  blood  and  stained 
the  sky  with  red.  In  the  east  the  early  stars  were  up 
and  glimmered. 

Djafar  stood  very  still ;  his  arms  hung  down 
straight.  His  pulses  beat  like  hammers ;  his  brain 
was  hot  as  fire  with  brooding  over  the  possibilities  of 
the  future.  Might  he  not  wait  and  hope — he  who 
built  on  a  foundation  so  sure  as  the  folly  of  the  great 
powers  ?  The  glow  in  the  west  went  out,  the  night 
drew  on.  With  her  veil  she  covered  the  earth,  and 
in  the  infinite  the  stars  came  out  and  shone. 

Djafar  looked  up  to  the  heavens. 

'  War  between  them  .  .  .  war  .  .  .  war  .  .  .'  he 
prayed  with  passionate  fervour. 

A  shooting-star  twinkled  into  sight  and  vanished. 


FEVER 

'  WATER,  Sister,  water !  And  a  bit  of  ice  ...  no,  a 
lot  of  ice,  a  lot !  My  head  is  burning  and  a  stream  of 
molten  lead  is  running  through  my  body  !  It  is  burning 
me  up,  suffocating  me  .  .  .  killing  me  ...  I  want 
to  live,  do  you  hear,  Sister  ?  And  I  can't  lengthen  it 
out.  I  can  bear  no  more.  .  .  .  What  did  the  doctor  say 
before  he  went  away  ?  Nothing,  nothing  at  all !  But 
he  had  a  serious  face,  is  it  not  so  ?  Sister,  you  are  used 
to  reading  his  looks.  You  must  tell  me  candidly  if  he 
thinks  my  end  is  near  !  You  really  must,  Sister  !  You 
are  always  wearing  the  sign  of  mercy  on  your  arm,  and 
your  eyes  are  so  kind.  .  .  .  You  must  tell  me  honestly 
how  long  I  have  yet  ?  I  don't  want  to  die,  and  then 
too,  I  don't  want  to  live.  Can  I  after  all  ?  You  need 
not  answer  me,  need  not  say  anything.  .  .  .  Just 
nod  when  I  ask  you.  .  .  .  You  shake  your  head  .  .  . 
you  smile.  .  .  .  Thanks,  Sister,  thanks  !  And  now 
another  little  drop  of  water.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  does  one 
good  !  But  you  must  not  go  away  !  Look  here.  .  .  . 
Come  closer  to  me !  Quite  close  !  I  want  to  whisper 
something  in  your  ear.  The  others  must  not  hear  it 

239 


240  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

on  any  account.  Yes,  I  am  an  officer  .  .  .  know  my 
duty.  But  I  will  say  it  to  you,  for  you  are  not  one  of 
the  combatants.  Yes — only  some  thoughts  of  mine. 
They  lie  like  burning  coals  in  my  brain,  they  light  it 
up,  but  they  are  burning  it  away.  Pour  water  over  it — 
water  !  One  of  them  is  inside  here — just  here — on  the 
right  side.  Sometimes  it  glows  a  little,  sometimes  it  is 
only  smoke  and  vapour,  but  then  it  blazes  up  again. 
The  flame  licks  the  vault  of  the  brain  from  inside  .  .  . 
from  inside,  Sister.  If  you  were  to  pour  even  the  whole 
Mediterranean  over  my  head  the  fire  could  not  be 
extinguished.  It  lies  hidden  here  inside  of  me,  and  no 
one  but  me  knows  the  secret.  And  my  thoughts  fan  the 
fire  again  till  it  bursts  out  in  flames.  You  see,  the 
thoughts  are  the  worst  of  it.  They  creep  in  and  out 
of  the  brain,  and  set  it  on  fire  ...  on  fire  !  They  go 
slinking  about,  just  like  the  Bedouins  in  the  desert. 
One  sees  nothing,  has  no  suspicion  that  they  are  so 
near,  until  suddenly  bang  goes  a  shot  at  hardly  five 
paces.  And  then  the  firing  thunders  away  without 
a  break. 

'  Can  you  imagine  it,  Sister, — what  a  fearful  strain 
it  is  when  one  knows  the  enemy  lies  hidden  all  about 
one  ?  Wherever  you  turn  your  eyes  only  ridges  of 
sand,  ravines  and  hollows,  with  here  and  there  a  patch 
of  dull  green — and  the  enemy  is  waiting  hidden  in  the 
bushes,  half  buried  in  the  sand.  They  lie  there  with 
finger  on  trigger  watching  every  step  you  take  .  .  . 
safely  hidden  away  .  .  .  invisible.  They  come  spying 
on  you  .  .  .  cautiously.  .  .  .  Not  a  sound  breaks 
the  stillness.  It  is  only  the  wind  sighing  through  the 
grass,  and  the  sand  rustles  softly  under  their  tread. 
And  just  when  you  feel  quite  sure  that  there  is  no 


FEVER  241 

danger  threatening,  bang  go  the  shots  !  Every  nerve 
in  your  body  contracts,  every  muscle  is  rigid  for  a 
moment.  Then  you  feel  a  burning  pang  in  breast  .  .  . 
in  stomach  ...  in  brain  .  .  .  everywhere.  Where 
am  I  hit  ?  Where  ? 

*  Water — water  !   Thanks  ! 

'  Suddenly  you  are  lying  on  the  sand,  you  who  just 
now  stood  erect,  strong,  full  of  courage,  eager  for 
action.  You  lie  there  helpless  and  wounded  and  faint. 
You  know  that  you  are  abandoned  to  the  mercy,  or 
the  mercilessness,  of  a  fanatical  foe,  whom  you  cannot 
even  see.  He  is  somewhere  or  other  near  at  hand, 
keenly  watching  your  every  move,  and  loading  his 
rifle  again.  You  cannot  escape  him,  you  cannot  even 
shrink  aside,  his  rifle  is  levelled  at  you,  and  he  is 
choosing  slowly  but  surely  the  place  where  the  next 
bullet  is  to  hit.  His  eyes  are  afire  with  the  lust  of 
murder,  his  .  .  .  more  water,  Sister  ! 

'  You  are  in  his  power.  He  can  do  what  he  pleases 
with  you.  .  .  .  Your  pulse  beats  fast,  your  lungs  are 
gasping.  Where  has  this  brown  devil  dug  himself  into 
the  sand  ?  Where  has  he  hidden  his  grinning  face  ? 
Where  ?  .  .  .  where  ?  ...  He  is  there  .  .  .  somewhere  .  .  . 
behind  you,  perhaps.  He  is  enjoying  your  suffering, 
he  reads  your  agonies  in  your  cramped-up,  contracted 
form.  Water  .  .  .  no,  the  sea,  Sister — the  whole 
sea. 

'  His  bullet  comes,  swift  and  sure.  ...  It  hits  its 
mark,  ploughs  a  way  through  you,  opens  a  passage 
through  which  your  blood  is  running  away.  All  you 
have  is  disappearing,  as  your  blood  mingles  with  the 
sand.  .  .  . 

'  Sister,  that  man  did  only  his  duty,  just  as  I  would 


242  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

have  done  mine  if  some  lucky  chance  had  led  him  to 
make  a  careless  movement,  so  that  I  could  see  him  first. 

'  Thanks,  Sister,  you  are  good  !  That  compress  is 
cooling  my  forehead  so  nicely.  It  is  a  relief  for  a  few 
seconds.  But  it  can't  put  out  the  fire  inside  there. 
And  by  its  light  I  see  a  gigantic  sign  of  interrogation. 
Why  ?  why  ?  I  ask  incessantly.  At  night  the  sign 
lights  up  like  a  pillar  of  fire  ;  by  day  it  thickens  into 
black  smoke.  See,  it  is  standing  there,  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  The  point  at  its  base  is  hidden  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth,  its  curving  line  curls  itself  round  above 
like  a  snake  erecting  itself  to  strike  ;  and  its  head 
hits  against  the  clouds.  Its  height  is  enormous,  im- 
measurable. See,  it  is  shaking  ...  it  threatens 
me  ...  falls  !  Help  !  help  !  it  is  falling  .  .  .  crushing 
me  ...  I  ... 

'  Thanks,  Sister,  your  hand  is  cool  and  gentle. 
Now  that  thing  is  bending  over  me  from  the  other  side 
— now  it  is  still  for  a  while,  until  again  it  ...  Look 
you,  Sister,  this  "  Why  "  is  something  fearful.  When 
at  last  it  falls  down  on  me,  it  breaks  open  my  skull, 
and  then  the  flame  inside  gets  air,  and  I  burn  up, 
consumed  with  my  own  fire  ! 

'  Sister,  do  you  know  what  feeds  the  fire  ?  Bend 
down  nearer  to  me — nearer  still !  I  am  an  officer, 
of  course,  and  must  betray  no  secrets.  It  would  not 
be  well  for  the  men  to  get  an  idea  of  it.  , 

'  You  see,  when  a  thief  breaks  in  and  plunders  a 
house,  he  is  punished.  The  law  lays  that  down,  and 
the  law  is  right.  Thieving  is  a  disgraceful  business, 
and  it 's  all  the  same  whether  the  thief  steals  little  or 
much  .  .  .  but  you  understand  all  that.  I  have  no 
time  to  stop  over  small  details  ...  I  ...  well  then, 


FEVER  243 

a  thief  is  a  thief.  And  if  he  has  others  to  help  him  in 
his  stealing,  they  are  thieves  also.  The  law  pays  no 
regard  to  their  numbers  .  .  .  the  law  is  .  .  .  is  the  law. 

'  But  you  see,  Sister,  if  one  nation  commits  burglary 
on  another,  then  .  .  .  well,  what  do  you  say  yourself  ? 

'  When  the  fire  flames  up  I  see  it  clearly  and 
plainly.  All  over  the  roof  of  my  brain  there  is 
"  Thief  !  thief  !  "  .  .  . 

'  It  is  inexplicable  that  there  is  room  in  the  brain 
for  so  many  words.  And  written  so  largely  too  ! 
They  are  as  tall  as  a  man,  quite  an  army  of  letters  ! 
And  always  these  five.  They  are  transparent,  they 
glow  and  send  out  an  unbearable  heat. 

'  Sister,  don't  take  your  hand  away.  If  I  ask  you 
a  question  now,  shake  your  head  as  you  did  before ; 
and  shake  it  for  a  long  time.  Sister,  am  I  a  thief  ?' 

'  Thanks,  you  are  good,  you  understand  me ! 
What  have  I  to  do  with  the  law  ?  After  all,  I  am  a 
soldier. 

'  Sister,  give  me  your  hand,  both  hands  !  Hold 
mine  fast — fast !  Now  that  fire  is  flaming  up  again. 
That  sign  of  the  question  is  bending  about  so  threaten- 
ingly !  What  noise  is  that  outside  ?  Why  is  there  that 
annoying  rattling  of  the  window-panes  ? 

'  What  do  you  say,  Sister  ?  I  can't  understand. 
Your  voice  does  not  carry  through  the  noise.  And 
that  thing  is  falling  down  on  me  ...  Help  !  .  .  .' 

'  Cannon,  you  say.  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  cannon  ?  So  I  .  .  . 
a  fight  .  .  .  nothing  else !  It  will  be  down  by  Bu 
Meliana  again,  I  suppose  ?  A  fight ;  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  what 
a  droll  idea ! 

R  2 


244  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  That  Bedouin  I  was  talking  about  just  now.  I 
never  got  a  sight  of  him.  It  is  a  pity,  Sister,  but  I 
must  tell  it  to  you.  I  never  saw  even  one  Bedouin. 
I  was  only  a  few  days  here,  and  then  .  .  .  this  illness 
of  mine.  I  was  not  so  well  on  the  transport  steamer, 
but  I  got  really  ill  only  after  we  landed.  Surely  it 
can't  be  the  cholera.  What  do  you  think  ?  My 
comrades  often  talked  about  it,  but  then  they  laughed 
at  it  ...  just  as  I  do  now.  No,  it  's  not  cholera. 
You  are  right,  Sister ;  why  should  I  think  of  such  a 
thing  ?  I  am  not  asking  half  on  my  own  account,  but 
for  the  sake  of  my  mother.  You  must  see  her,  Sister. 
Such  a  stately  old  lady  !  Her  hands  trembled  as  she 
bade  me  good-bye.  Her  eyes  shone  with  tears.  I 
promised  her  I  would  come  back.  You  quite  under- 
stand I  must  keep  my  promise. 

'  That  is  right,  Sister.  You  nod  and  smile  too  .  .  . 
nod  and  .  .  . ' 

'  Just  another  thing,  Sister.  Did  you  mention  the 
word  "  Thief  "  just  now,  or  did  I  ?  It 's  a  shocking 
business.  Whoever  steals  is  disgraced,  and  whoever 
helps  him  is  disgraced  as  much.  And  one  must  not 
keep  what  is  stolen,  whether  secretly  or  by  open 
violence — is  it  not  so  ?  If  an  individual  steals  one 
sou  he  falls  under  the  scope  of  the  law — he  is  disgraced  ; 
but  if  one  nation  steals  away  another's  land  and 
people,  it  wins  fame  and  honour  and  booty.  .  .  .  How 
can  one  explain  that  ?  That  great  big  questioning  sign 
is  there  again  ...  it  is  red  ...  as  blood  ...  as 
fire.  .  .  .  Its  flames  lick  the  firmament  of  heaven. 
I  am  burning  up  !  .  .  .  Water  !  ...  an  ocean  of  it 
to  extinguish  this  hell-fire  ! 


FEVER  245 

»  '  Sister,  you  are  a  living  proof  that  there  is  mercy 
in  the  world,  so  I  will  tell  you  what  I  know,  what  I 
myself  have  found  by  experience.  You  see  that  Colossus 
that  hangs  over  me,  over  you,  over  us  all :  that  is — 
listen  to  what  I  say — that  is  War  !  It  has  the  form  of 
a  great  questioning  sign,  for  no  one  can  explain  the 
"  Why  "  of  it,  even  though  all  are  shrieking  out  their 
answers.  For  the  moment  it  hangs  threateningly  over 
our  nation — next  moment  over  our  neighbour.  It  may 
at  any  minute  fall  backwards  or  forwards,  crushing 
me  or  another.  But  do  you  see,  Sister,  how  at  the  foot 
of  it  our  rulers  sit  playing  cards  like  a  lot  of  wretched 
horse-dealers  at  a  country  fair  ?  I  see  what  sort  of  cards 
they  are  playing — pride  and  ambition,  dull  stupidity 
and  touchy  irritation,  and  the  world  stands  by  and 
waits  patiently  for  the  result.  Woe  to  the  weak,  for 
the  lack  of  strength  is  something  unpardonable ! 
"  You  take  this,  I  take  that  "  is  the  talk  now,  and 
they  exchange  and  divide  among  themselves,  without 
a  thought  of  the  rights  of  another.  That  is  what  they 
call  "  modern  statecraft."  Men,  how  can  you  be  so 
simple  as  to  let  yourselves  be  the  stake  for  their  game  ? 

'  Sister,  keep  your  ear  near  me  and  I  will  tell  you 
the  truth  !  Men  deserve  no  compassion — only  con- 
tempt. You  believe  that  ...  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  And 
to  believe  is  dangerous  if  one  does  not  believe  rightly. 
You  appeal  in  vain  to  their  reason — they  have  none  ! 
Don't  appeal  to  their  better  feelings — where  are  they 
to  get  any  such  things  from  ?  Pray  for  sufferings, 
that  purify  and  cleanse  .  .  . 

'  Purify  and  cleanse  .  .  .  did  I  say,  Sister  ? 
A  mistake,  a  complete  mistake  !  All  suffering  makes 
men  evil.  He  who  suffers  himself  is  ready  to 


246  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

see  others  suffer.  Get  out  of  my  reach,  Sister,  lest 
I  drive  my  nails  into  your  flesh  !  I  want  to  bite,  and 
scratch  ...  I  ...  Water  !  Water  !  Sister,  did  you 
not  hear  that  shell  that  exploded  in  my  brain  ?  Hurrah, 
my  brave  fellows  !  Forward  !  We  have  dealt  a  blow 
to  humanity  and  got  it  in  fairly  between  the  eyes  ! 
Hurrah  !  Only  the  strong  can  venture  anything,  only 
the  brave  brings  victory  home  !  .  .  .' 

'  Now  the  pain  is  ceasing  and  the  fire  is  extinguished. 
Sister,  if  I  were  a  dishonoured  accomplice  in  a  guilty 
enterprise,  I  could  never  again  go  back  to  my  mother, 
never  again  look  her  in  the  face.  But  I  am  a  soldier 
who  has  fought  for  the  greatness  and  the  future  of  his 
native  land.  Mother,  dearest  mother,  your  son  is 
coming  !  See  he  has  his  breast  covered  with  war 
medals,  and  the  cross  of  honour  amid  them,  over 
his  heart  !  Mother  .  .  .  mother.  .  .  .  Help  !  The 
Colossus  is  tottering  ...  it  is  falling  on  me  ... 
Why  .  .  .  ?  ' 


The  door  at  the  far  end  of  the  hospital  ward  opened, 
and  an  overtired  voice  said  nervously  and  excitedly  : 

'  What !  Tears,  sister  ?  Is  he  dead  ?  It  could 
not  end  any  other  way.  He  was  as  delicate  and  weak 
as  a  girl  .  .  .  You  are  thinking  of  his  mother  ? 
Dio  mio !  Sister,  he  has  gone  off  easily  enough. 
What  is  the  noise  there  ?  What  do  you  say  ?  Another 
convoy  of  wounded  !  I  have  got  through  fourteen 
operations  to-day — fourteen,  do  you  hear  ?  I  'm  fairly 
done.  Oh  yes,  you  can  meantime  get  him  on  to 
the  operating  table  !  Rivarato,  who  is  Lieutenant 


FEVER  247 

Rivarato  ?  Officer  or  reservist,  they  are  all  alike  when 
it  comes  to  the  knife.  Here,  give  me  a  gramme  of 
quinine.  I  have  fever.  Two  of  you  men  take  that 
body  away  !  The  bed  has  been  engaged  in  advance 
for  some  time.  Disinfection  ?  What  are  you  thinking 
of,  Sister  ?  How  can  we  have  time  for  such  things  ? 
Besides  there  is  not  a  drop  left  ...  it 's  all  clean 
gone.  We  were  to  have  had  a  new  supply  to-day,  but 
it 's  so  stormy  that  the  ships  can't  get  into  the  harbour. 
We  must  manage  as  best  we  can.  Turn  the  sheet, 
and  give  the  pillows  a  good  shaking  out !  You 
must  lie  down  for  a  while,  Sister.  You  want  a 
rest.  And  don't  think  any  more  about  his  mother,  or 
about  anything  at  all.  I  will  give  you  some  veronal ; 
that  is  often  a  help.  War  is  the  fever-fit  of  a  nation. 
War  exists  on  purpose  for  people  to  die.  There  is 
no  remedy  for  war  but  blood-letting.  War  is  a 
necessity — in  other  words,  civilisation  is  superfluous. 
What  are  you  calling  for  down  there  ?  I  'm  coming 
right  enough.  Look,  Sister,  how  my  hands  tremble  ! 
Fourteen  operations  since  early  this  morning — no  rest — 
no  time  to  eat  anything.  .  .  .  Who  has  any  time  for 
meals  now  ?  Only  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  dose  of 
quinine  .  .  .  and  then  I  run  off  to  the  fifteenth.  I  am 
going  mad  with  the  overstrain.  If  I  go  smash,  see  to 
it,  I  beg,  that  the  hospital  people  don't  put  me  in 
among  the  typhus  patients.  And  if  I  am  officially 
locked  up  as  a  lunatic  I  shall  cry  out  that  war  is  not 
necessary — at  any  rate  for  the  doctors.  No,  I  shall 
take  good  care  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  it. 
They  may  take  that,  if  they  like,  as  a  proof  that  I  am 
incurable.  What  the  mischief  are  you  doing  over 
there  ?  I  'm  coming  soon  enough.  Get  him  under 


248  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

chloroform  meanwhile,  or  give  him  something  else — 
anything  else — we  have  not  any  great  choice  to-day. 
No,  Sister,  I  keep  quiet  and  cut  asunder  and  stitch 
together  again,  and  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  how  the 
cannon  are  thundering  ?  We  are  getting  a  lot  more 
to  do  to-day.  See,  there  is  another  ambulance  wagon 
swinging  in  by  the  entrance  !  If  only  my  brain  does 
not  leave  me  in  the  lurch  !  This  sudden  noise  is 
something  frightful !  One  has  some  poor  fellow  there 
on  the  table  in  front  of  one,  and  all  is  going  well.  But 
then  a  cannon  goes  bang  !  somewhere,  and  one  is 
irritated  .  .  .  precisely  at  the  all-important  moment. 
No,  now  not  another  word !  Wars  are  absolutely 
necessary, — was  not  that  what  they  were  saying, 
Sister  ?  They  are  right.  I  am  persuaded  of  it,  I 
believe  it,  that 's  the  easiest  way.  Do  you  know, 
Sister,  I  once  wrote  a  treatise,  and  a  critical  colleague 
cut  it  up,  so  that  there  was  nothing  left  of  it..  He  was 
quite  right,  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter. 
He  made  me  out  to  be  well-nigh  impossible.  When  I 
go  home  I  shall  challenge  him  to  a  pistol  duel  and  put 
a  ball  through  his-  body.  Now  that  I  am  thoroughly 
convinced  of  the  necessity  of  war,  I  know  also  to  what 
purpose  one  should  make  use  of  it.  My  colleague  is 
so  short-sighted  that  he  can  hardly  see  ten  paces, — 
that 's  a  convenient  sort  of  opponent  !  And  when 
nations  begin  war  to  ...  to  ...  yes,  why  ?  Can 
you,  or  any  other  reasonable  being  say  why  ?  Well, 
I  have  got  provocation ;  why  then  should  not  I  ... 
Sister,  don't  mind  my  talk.  It  's  nothing  but  over-ex- 
citement. The  end  of  the  story  is  that  the  nations  have 
claimed  the  right  to  go  mad  from  time  to  time  .  .  . 
war-fever,  you  see.  But  individual  persons  must  act 


FEVER  249 

as  reasonable  beings.  Collective  insanity  and  .  .  . 
Well,  what  is  it  now  ?  He  is  chloroformed  ?  All 
right,  then.  Good-bye,  Sister.  I  don't  mean  anything 
by  what  I  have  been  saying.  I  'm  only  tired  out. 
Ready  to  drop.  If  you  could  only  have  an  idea  of  it ! 
And  below  there  the  fifteenth  is  waiting  for  me.  .  .  . 
How  my  pulse  is  throbbing  .  .  .  We  have  fever, 
one  and  all,  from  the  general  down  to  the  boy  bugler. 
But  for  that  we  really  could  not  do  our  duty.  This 
intoxication  of  fever  is  necessary — do  you  see  ?  With- 
out the  fever,  no  war  ;  therefore  .  .  .  But  when  the 
fever  frenzy  is  over  and  the  collapse  comes  on  ... 
it 's  awful,  Sister  .  .  .  awful.  ...  I  am  coming 
now  .  .  .' 

The  door  shut  with  a  bang  that  set  the  window- 
sashes  rattling.  Just  then  there  came  softly  the  mur- 
muring chant  of  the  '  Mass  for  the  Dead,'  and  a  slight 
perfume  of  incense  mingled  with  the  infected  air  of 
the  hospital  sheds.  Outside  the  storm-wind  whistled. 
In  the  distance  the  cannon  were  thundering.  A  third 
ambulance  wagon  came  jolting  in  through  the  entrance 
gate. 


•VI 

LIES 

'  SIGNOR  FONTANARA  !     Signer  Fontanara  ! ' 

The  archaeologist  looked  up  from  the  papers  which 
he  had  placed  on  the  bench  in  front  of  him.  A  small 
stout  man,  wearing  a  red  fez,  but  in  other  respects 
dressed  like  a  European,  came  up  the  pathway  leading 
.to  the  tent.  Fontanara  taxed  his  memory.  Where 
had  he  seen  this  man  before  ? 

'  Signer  Fontanara  ! '  cried  the  man  again,  making 
an  excited  gesture  with  his  right  hand. 

The  archaeologist  stood  up  impatiently,  annoyed  at 
being  disturbed.  It  came  back  to  him  now  that  the 
man  was  a  dragoman  from  one  of  the  consulates — he 
could  not  remember  which.  What  could  have  brought 
him  at  this  inopportune  moment,  just  as  the  exca- 
vations had  begun  to  take  on  a  promising  aspect  ? 

'  Signore  ! '  The  interpreter's  perspiring  face  ap- 
peared through  the  opening  of  the  tent. 

'Good  evening,'  replied  the  archaeologist  cour- 
teously, inwardly  consigning  his  interrupter  to  a  hot 
place. 

The  fat  dragoman  squeezed  through  the  opening, 
250 


LIES  251 

breathless  from  his  quick  climb  up  the  hill.  He  gasped 
out  the  question : 

'  You  are  quite  alone,  Signore  ?  ' 

Fontanara,  nettled  by  this  unceremonious  incursion, 
eyed  him  haughtily  hi  silence. 

The  dragoman,  innocent  of  all  offence,  continued  in 
a  whisper  : 

'  None  of  the  workmen  are  about  ?  ' 

Fontanara,  for  sole  reply,  stood  regarding  him  with 
cold  disfavour. 

'  Good/  continued  the  dragoman,  still  unconscious 
of  the  effect  he  was  producing.  '  Good.  Then  will  you 
get  your  things  together  at  once,  Signore  ? — and  we  '11 
be  off.' 

'  What !  '   exclaimed  the  archaeologist,  astonished. 

'  You  must  get  out  of  this  at  once,  there  's  not  a 
moment  to  lose.  This  travelling  bag  here  will  hold  all 
you  can  take.'  And  he  glanced  round  the  tent  to  see 
what  would  have  to  be  packed  into  it. 

'  I  haven't  the  faintest  notion  what  you  are  talking 
about ! ' 

'  Saints  hi  Heaven  !  You  haven't  heard  the  news  ! 
I  have  only  come  in  the  nick  of  time  then.  The  war 
has  begun.  Now  you  understand.' 

Fontanara  held  out  his  hand  to  his  visitor 
gratefully. 

'  And  you  came  out  all  this  way  just  to  tell  me  ?  ' 

'  Well,  of  course  ! '  he  replied.  '  The  fighting  has 
begun  in  Tripoli  and  probably  in  two  other  localities 
as  well.  You  can  imagine  how  the  Turks  are  feeling  ! — 
they  are  still  half  asleep  and  rubbing  their  eyes.  The 
whole  thing  has  been  carefully  planned  out.  You  can 
take  my  word  for  it  that  it  will  be  all  over  in  a  fortnight 


252  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

and  Italy  will  be  in  possession  of  a  great  new  province. 
Evviva  !  ' 

Restraining  himself  he  continued  :  '  Of  course  we 
could  not  leave  you  out  here  in  the  desert  all  alone — it 
was  too  risky.' 

'  I  see/  replied  Fontanara,  his  brain  in  a  whirl. 

'  In  a  couple  of  days'  time — perhaps  even  to- 
morrow,' went  on  the  dragoman,  '  the  news  will  have 
spread  throughout  the  whole  of  Asia  Minor.  The  work- 
men here  will  get  to  hear  of  it  almost  at  once,  and  it 
wouldn't  be  long  before  they  began  to  reflect  that  there 
was  an  Italian  living  here  by  himself  among  them, 
and — well,  you  can  finish  the  sentence  for  yourself, 
Signore  ! ' 

He  paused  to  glance  at  his  watch. 

'  Santissima  !  '  he  exclaimed,  '  we  must  be  quick 
if  we  want  to  get  to  the  station  in  time.  Don't  take 
any  of  your  clothes,  Signore.  Only  some  of  your  papers, 
a  book  or  two,  your  revolver,  and  above  all  your  money. 
If  you  were  to  bring  anything  else  in  the  way  of  luggage, 
it  would  look  suspicious.  There  's  a  feeling  about 
already  that  there 's  something  in  the  air.  Now, 
Signore,  we  must  rush  things.  We  have  exactly  ten 
minutes,  not  a  second  more.' 

Fontanara  recognised  that  he  must  act  as  the 
interpreter  advised.  With  all  possible  haste  he 
collected  together  his  manuscripts — when,  he  asked 
himself,  would  he  be  able  to  complete  the  great  task  in 
which  he  had  been  absorbed  ?  Next  he  bethought 
himself  of  his  money.  It  was  in  his  pocket  book,  in  a 
pocket  of  his  best  coat.  He  put  it  on  and  changed  his 
fez  for  a  light  travelling  cap.  Then  he  thought  of 
putting  on  his  boots.  .  .  . 


LIES  253 

'  Better  not  ! '  said  the  dragoman,  watching  him. 
'  There  's  hardly  time.' 

After  all,  he  could  easily  buy  another  pair  in  the 
town.  '  Good/  he  replied,  closing  the  travelling 
bag ;  '  I  am  ready.' 

He  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  opening  of  the  tent. 
The  thing  had  come  about  so  suddenly  that  Fontanara 
had  not  had  time  for  reflection,  but  now  he  began  to 
realise  bitterly  the  full  bearing  of  the  situation.  With 
what  eager  hopes  he  had  set  himself  to  the  task  of  these 
excavations !  It  had  taken  him  several  years  to 
complete  his  plans  and  to  secure  the  means  for  carrying 
them  out.  He  had  been  lucky.  The  State  had  pro- 
vided for  a  portion  of  the  cost,  and  a  number  of  private 
individuals  of  wealth  had  undertaken  to  defray  the 
rest.  The  name  of  Pietro  Fontanara  had  come  to  be 
an  honoured  one  in  the  world  of  learning.  He  had 
won  his  spurs  in  Fiorelli's  school,  having  carried 
through  certain  small  excavations  with  noteworthy 
results.  His  inspiring  utterances  on  the  subject  of  the 
duties  of  the  civilised  world  of  to-day  towards  the 
glories  and  greatness  of  times  past  had  everywhere 
called  forth  sympathy  and  support.  Confident  of 
success  he  had  come  to  Asia  Minor,  engaged  work- 
men and  commenced  operations.  It  soon  became  clear 
that  his  efforts  were  to  be  fruitful.  Every  day  yielded 
new  and  interesting  discoveries. 

And  now  ? 

He  had  made  a  wonderfully  promising  start — that 
was  all.  The  enlarging  of  a  political  '  sphere  of 
interest '  was  obviously  of  greater  importance  than  any 
researches  into  the  secrets  of  the  past.  Obviously — 
yet  was  it  so  obvious  ?  To  him  the  war  meant  the 


254 


PRIDE  OF  WAR 


destruction  of  all  his  hopes — the  ruin  possibly  of  his 
whole  career.  For  how  could  he  be  sure  that  he  would 
ever  return  here — ever  be  able  to  complete  what  had 
been  so  auspiciously  begun  ? 

'  Signer  Fontanara  ! '  The  dragoman  reminded  him 
of  the  need  for  haste. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Farewell  to  all  his 
schemes  and  hopes  !  The  war  would  put  an  end  to 
many  things  besides  his  excavations.  He  sighed 
deeply. 

'  Good.    Let  us  go  ! ' 

They  made  their  way  down  the  steep  path,  Fon- 
tanara irresolute  and  despondent,  the  dragoman  with 
a  smile  of  satisfaction  on  his  fat  face. 

'  Signore  ! '  Some  one  called  out  from  behind — 
the  syllables  were  not  distinct  but  the  voice  was 
resonant. 

'  Is  it  you,  Yussuf  ?  '   Fontanara  stood  still  to  listen. 

In  a  moment  a  stalwart,  massively  built  Turk 
came  running  after  them.  He  glanced  inquiringly  at 
the  travelling  bag  which  the  archaeologist  was  carrying. 

'  An  unexpected  piece  of  news/  he  explained 
hastily.  '  I  have  to  go  to  town.' 

The  Turk  gazed  at  him  with  his  frank,  honest  eyes. 
He  had  surmised  so.  The  sight  of  the  archaeologist 
in  the  company  of  another  European  descending  the 
path  could  scarcely  be  explained  otherwise.  And  as 
the  journey  to  town  would  take  two  days,  if  not  three, 
there  must  be  question  of  something  important.  Had 
the  Signore  no  orders  to  give  ? 

Fontanara  looked  at  him.  What  a  fine  fellow  he 
was,  this  foreman  whom  a  lucky  chance  had  thrown 
in  his  way. 


LIES  255 

How  well  Yussuf  Hali  had  always  understood 
his  instructions,  and  how  efficient  he  had  proved 
himself  in  seeing  them  carried  out.  A  man  of  no 
education — where  could  he  have  got  any  ? — he  had 
succeeded  by  dint  of  his  great  natural  intelligence 
and  immense  energjr.  Within  a  week  Fontanara  had 
learnt  to  respect  him,  within  a  fortnight  he  had  come 
to  have  a  real  regard  for  him.  And  his  feeling  had 
been  reciprocated  by  the  Turk.  How  openly  on  all 
occasions  had  Yussuf  given  proof  of  this  .  .  .  and 
now  .  .  .  ! 

Fontanara  was  recalled  to  himself  by  the  inter- 
preter's touching  him  on  the  arm. 

'  Here,  Yussuf,  you  had  better  take  your  money 
for  the  week/  he  said.  The  foreman  glanced  at  him 
inquiringly  and  evidently  much  astonished.  '  It  is 
possible,'  he  went  on,  '  that  I  shall  be  prevented  from 
getting  back  in  time.' 

'  But  you  are  coming  back  ?  '  asked  Yussuf 
anxiously.  '  I  shall  rejoice  to  see  you  come  back.' 

'  Of  course  he  will  come  back,'  said  the  drago- 
man, and  the  two  proceeded  hurriedly  on  their 
way. 

The  archaeologist  looking  round  presently  saw  the 
Turk  standing  motionless,  his  eyes  still  turned  in 
their  direction.  He  took  off  his  cap  and  waved  a 
friendly  farewell.  Yussuf  raised  his  hand  to  his 
fez  and  gave  a  military  salute. 

Fontanara  was  reminded  by  this  of  the  fact  that 
the  Turk  had  served  in  a  Turkish  regiment  in  Europe 
and  had  risen  to  the  rank  of  sergeant. 

'  What  a  splendid  fellow  he  is  ! '  he  reflected.  '  And 
what  luck  it  was  for  me  that  he  had  that  row  with  a 


256  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

superior  officer,  and  took  his  discharge  just  in  time 
to  come  to  my  help.'  Or  rather  just  in  time  to  make 
the  present  condition  of  things  still  more  tantalis- 
ing, for  doubtless  the  excavations  would  now  be 
carried  through  by  some  German  or  Frenchman,  or 
Englishman. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  time  they  saw  the  little 
station  in  the  distance,  but  it  took  them  half  an  hour 
longer  to  reach  it. 

They  reached  it  just  in  time,  and  took  up  their  places 
in  an  empty  carriage.  Fontanara  crouched  up  in  a 
corner  and  abandoned  himself  to  his  bitter  reflections. 
All  his  efforts  during  three  long  years  had  gone  for 
nothing — all  his  valuable  work  been  rendered  of  no 
account. 

But  he  gradually  came  to  feel  that  there  was  a 
reverse  side  to  the  picture,  and  by  the  time  the  train 
reached  Aidin  he  realised  that  he  was  beginning  to  see 
things  in  quite  a  different  light.  What  were  these 
excavations  of  his  but  a  mere  trivial  detail  compared 
with  the  conquest  of  an  entire  country — an  immense 
province  with  incalculable  possibilities,  an  endless 
expanse  of  virgin  soil,  and  a  scanty  native  population 
of  half -civilised  races.  Fontanara  sat  thinking.  The 
drain  upon  the  vitality  of  his  own  country  caused  by 
wholesale  emigration  to  America  had  presented  an 
apparently  insoluble  problem.  This  drain  would 
now  cease.  The  stream  of  emigration  would  turn 
round  to  an  Italian  colony  and  could  be  kept  under 
control,  to  the  advantage  both  of  the  emigrants 
themselves  and  of  their  Motherland.  Something  new 
and  great  and  full  of  promise  was  happening.  Fon- 
tanara experienced  a  feeling  of  joy  as  these  thoughts 


LIES  257 

came  to  him.  He  glanced  gratefully  towards  his 
companion. 

The  dragoman  sat  bunched  up  opposite,  with  his 
legs  drawn  up  beneath  him.  A  cigarette  which  had 
gone  out  hung  limply  from  his  lips.  He  slept.  Fon- 
tanara  was  able  to  study  his  features  now  in  a  leisurely 
fashion.  The  man's  cheeks  were  swollen  and  pasty. 
His  whole  appearance  was  flabby  and  unwholesome, 
as  not  seldom  is  the  case  with  Europeans  who  live  long 
in  the  East. 

The  landscape  was  unchanged  hour  after  hour 
— an  endless  expanse  of  parched  stony  desert, 
flecked  now  and  again  with  an  oasis  of  green. 
The  archaeologist  turned  away  his  eyes  from  the 
sleeper  and  let  them  rest  on  the  familiar  scene. 
'  This  is  the  East/  he  kept  saying  to  himself  :  '  the 
drowsy,  dreaming,  uncleanly  East,  with  its  lack  of 
enterprise,  its  fanaticism,  its  blind  belief  in  Fate — 
really  it  was  about  time  that  it  should  be  shaken  out 
of  its  slumbers  !  It  was  to  be  hoped  that  the  cannon- 
shots  at  Tripoli  were  the  heralds  of  a  new  era.'  He  felt, 
in  spite  of  all,  that  he  loved  the  region  which  he  had 
been  forced  so  unexpectedly  to  abandon.  The  war  had 
stopped  his  work,  but  might  it  not  give  him  in  the  end 
new  and  greater  opportunities  for  proceeding  with  it  ? 
The  deserts  of  Northern  Africa  must  conceal  great 
undiscovered  cities.  '  Was  there  not  in  Tripoli  a 
triumphal  arch  of  Marcus  Aurelius  ? '  He  began  to  feel 
that  his  disturbed  senses  were  regaining  their  equi- 
librium. He  continued  to  gaze  out  of  the  window. 

'  The  awakening  ! '  he  murmured  to  himself. 

The  dragoman  roused  up  and  glanced  observantly 
at  his  companion ;  noting  the  happier  look  in  his 


258  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

eyes,  he  began  to  chatter,  retailing  not  without  humour 
a  long  succession  of  stories  of  the  lives  of  the 
people  of  the  country — their  misfortunes  and 
absurdities. 

'All  very  much  as  it  is  with  us,'  reflected  Fontanara, 
'  though  the  details  differ.'  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
In  truth  he  could  not  display  much  interest  in  this  kind 
of  gossip. 

The  dragoman's  talk  flowed  on — instance  after 
instance  of  the  slackness  and  incompetence  of  the 
rulers  of  the  land.  He  laughed  boisterously  over  his 
own  stories. 

His  own  mother,  he  had  to  admit,  was  a  native  of 
the  country.  But  he  was  emphatic  in  declaring  himself 
Italian — '  A  patriotic  Italian,  Signore  ! ' 

Fontanara  found  it  difficult  not  to  laugh.  He 
turned  away  his  face.  He  knew  the  type  and  found  it 
difficult  even  to  be  civil. 

A  sinister  look  came  into  the  dragoman's  eyes. 
He  was  not  altogether  satisfied  with  this  '  compatriot,' 
who  turned  aside  from  him  so  markedly  just  when  he 
looked  for  some  kind  of  friendly  recognition  of  the 
bond  between  them. 

The  train  rattled  along  in  the  growing  dusk.  To 
the  west,  whither  they  were  travelling,  the  sun  was 
sinking  between  two  hills.  In  a  moment  it  had  gone, 
and  the  whole  landscape  was  in  darkness.  Heavily  and 
oppressively,  with  its  shroud  of  clammy  vapour, 
night  had  descended  upon  the  earth. 

Fontanara  sighed.  He  sank  back  in  his  seat.  The 
dragoman  had  fallen  asleep  again,  so  he  was  able 
to  abandon  himself  undisturbed  to  his  reveries. 

'  Was  this  journey — this  flight — really  necessary  ?  ' 


LIES  259 

The  question  was  never  satisfactorily  answered.  In 
spite  of  the  darkness  he  could  see  in  his  mind's  eye 
the  scenes  through  which  they  were  passing.  He 
remembered,  from  journeys  made  in  daylight,  just 
where  the  palms  stood — those  African  aliens  that  throve 
equally  in  the  stony  soil  of  Asia  ;  he  saw  the  olive-trees, 
grey  and  gnarled  and  brittle,  and  the  roses,  now  in 
bloom,  and  the  wild  asparagus.  .  .  .  And  he  recalled, 
with  a  tinge  of  bitterness  in  the  memory  even  now,  the 
feeling  of  disillusionment  which  he  had  experienced 
at  first  sight  of  the  East.  It  was  all  so  different  from 
his  imaginings.  The  '  Arabian  Nights  '  had  filled  his 
Western  mind  with  visions  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  His 
thoughts  turned  suddenly  now  to  Yussuf  Hali.  The 
Turk's  face  and  form  were  before  his  eyes  as  vividly 
as  in  life.  He  remembered  how  the  man  had  been 
recommended  to  him  as  capable  and  trustworthy. 
How  Yussuf  was  called  up  to  be  presented  to  him,  and 
how,  half  shyly,  yet  searchingly,  he  had  looked  at 
his  future  employer's  face  and  then  held  out  his  hand. 
A  contract  had  never  been  come  to  with  less  formality 
and  with  better  results. 

Fontanara  shuddered.  It  had  grown  cold.  One 
could  see  it  by  the  haze  on  the  windows. 

Yussuf  had  proved  himself  the  very  incarnation  of 
trustworthiness.  A  little  over-cautious,  sometimes 
a  little  obstinate,  he  was  open  to  argument  and 
persuasion.  He  seemed  devoid  of  the  faculty  of 
laughter  or  of  appreciating  anything  in  the  nature  of 
a  joke,  but  even  in  this  direction  he  showed  an  almost 
pathetic  anxiety  to  learn.  And  he  won  the  con- 
fidence of  this  foreign  employer  not  by  seeking  to  win  it, 
but  just  by  being  worthier  of  it  than  anyone  else. 


26o  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Fontanara  felt  a  pang  in  his  heart.  He  had  parted 
without  a  handshake  or  a  word  of  appreciation  from 
this  man  who  had  given  him  such  priceless  assistance 
and  support.  Ought  he  not  to  write  him  a  letter,  at 
least,  to  explain  matters  ?  .  .  .  No,  there  would  be  no 
good  in  doing  that. 

Fontanara  buttoned  up  his  coat.  Certainly  it 
looked  mean.  He  regretted  his  hasty  flight.  But 
surely  its  very  haste  would  explain  it  to  Yussuf,  who 
was  a  man  of  intelligence.  Fontanara  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  tried  to  convince  himself  that  he  was 
worrying  over  a  trifle.  But  it  was  of  no  use.  It 
was  almost  as  if  a  thorn  had  entered  his  flesh  and  had 
become  embedded  therein.  He,  the  Westerner,  had 
behaved  ill  by  his  friend  of  the  East. 

'  It  can't  be  helped,'  he  said  to  himself  wearily. 
And,  after  all,  what  had  an  archaeologist  like  him  to  do 
with  the  things  and  the  men  of  to-day  ?  And  he  began 
to  dwell  again  on  his  own  ill-luck — the  fruits  of  all  his 
learning  and  labours  snatched  out  of  his  grasp.  He 
was  a  victim  to  unfavourable  circumstances  and 
there  was  an  end  to  it.  As  for  Yussuf — well,  good 
luck  to  him  ! 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  endeavoured  to  sleep.  The 
train  rattled  along  monotonously,  the  woodwork  of  the 
carriages  creaking,  the  windows  clattering.  His  head 
nodded  involuntarily  in  time  with  the  rhythm  of  the 
train.  He  could  not  get  off  to  sleep,  but  he  was  only 
half  awake,  and  as  he  sat  there  a  succession  of  pictures 
seemed  to  pass  before  him — strange,  intangible  pictures 
out  of  the  world  and  the  life  to  which  he  had  dedicated 
his  career.  And  Yussuf  continually  stood  forth  from 
this  variegated  Eastern  background,  his  eyes  ever 


LIES  261 

asking  the  question  :   '  You  are  not  surely  going  away 
for  ever  ?  ' 

Fontanara  made  another  effort  to  pull  himself 
together.  '  Bah  !  What  has  happened,  has  happened 
for  the  best.'  What  he  wanted  now  most  in  the  world 
was  to  get  home.  Home  !  The  mere  thought  filled  his 
mind  suddenly  witfy  a  measureless,  unreasoning  longing. 

'  Home  !  '  he  said  out  loud.     '  Home  ! ' 

The  dragoman  awoke  again,  and  in  his  thick  drowsy 
voice  repeated  the  word  '  Home  !  ' 

A  friendlier  conversation  now  began  between  them. 
Fontanara's  longing  had  struck  a  chord  in  the  other's 
heart.  He  had  been  born  in  Asia  Minor  and  had  never 
been  to  Europe ;  there  was  something  in  his  accent 
that  suggested  the  Venetian.  His  father,  he  explained 
presently,  had  been  of  Austrian  origin.  He  showed 
that  he  himself  had  the  vaguest  idea  as  to  the  difference 
between  Austrians  and  Italians.  All  he  knew  was 
that  his  father  had  come  from  Italy,  and  with  tears  in 
his  voice  he  insisted  yet  again  on  the  fact  that  he 
was  an  Italian  and  a  patriot. 

This  time  Fontanara  was  sympathetic.  Impulsively 
he  stretched  out  his  arm  and  in  the  dark  the  two 
strangers  shook  hands. 

In  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  they  arrived  at 
Smyrna.  Fontanara  noted  immediately  that  the  news 
of  the  outbreak  of  the  war  was  evidently  known  there. 
Nothing  else  could  explain  the  unwonted  life  of  the 
town  and  the  patrolling  of  soldiers  through  the  streets. 

'  This  way,  Signore  ! '  The  dragoman  moved  along 
nimbly,  showing  Fontanara  the  way. 

There  was  a  huge  throng  of  people  down  by  the 
harbour.  Two  steamers  were  making  ready  to  start, 


262  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

and  streams  of  men  moved  up  and  down  the  quay. 
Fontanara  was  wont  to  trust  to  his  power  of  looking 
after  himself  in  such  circumstances,  but  on  this  occa- 
sion he  owed  it  to  the  dragoman  that  he  was  able  to 
embark  so  soon. 

'  Signor  Fontanara's  cabin  ?  The  famous  archaeo- 
logist, Signer  Fontanara.' 

A  flurried  sailor  answered  Yes,  having  first  said 
No.  Fontanara  found  the  cabin,  and  with  many  ex- 
pressions of  gratitude  said  good-bye  to  the  dragoman. 
The  latter  left  him  in  a  hesitating  sort  of  way,  seem- 
ing reluctant  to  go,  and  repeatedly  turning  round,  as 
though  he  expected  something  more  than  this.  Fon- 
tanara waved  his  hand  to  him  and  shut  the  cabin  door. 
He  was  tired  out  and  wanted  a  couple  of  hours'  sleep. 
He  had  no  sooner  lain  down  than  it  occurred  to  him 
that  the  dragoman's  face  had  borne  an  expression  of 
disappointment  and  something  stronger. 

He  sat  up.  Now  he  had  a  second  act  of  remissness 
on  his  conscience.  The  dragoman — whose  name  he  had 
not  asked — had  rendered  him  a  great  service,  and  for 
all  return  he  had  shaken  hands  with  him  !  He  felt 
thoroughly  ashamed  of  himself  for  having  lost  the 
opportunity  of  making  him  some  recompense.  He 
could  not  get  the  thing  off  his  mind.  It  was  another 
mistake  which  he  could  not  make  good.  But  at  last 
he  fell  asleep. 

A  quick  pattering  of  feet  above  his  head  awoke 
him  suddenly  and  he  rushed  on  deck.  A  stiff  breeze 
was  blowing.  The  steamer  was  already  out  of  the 
harbour.  The  coast  of  Asia  Minor  was  receding — 
soon  it  would  be  lost  in  the  morning  mist.  The 
quay  was  still  black  with  the  swarm  of  men.  It  was 


LIES  263 

no  longer  possible  to  make  out  their  faces ;  but  Fon- 
tanara  pictured  to  himself  the  astonishment  and 
anxiety  that  must  be  expressed  in  the  eyes  of  many 
of  his  countrymen  in  the  Turkish  city. 

What,  really,  was  one  to  think  about  this  war  ? 
Was  it  politic  or  even  defensible  ?  The  Turks  had 
a  crowd  of  hostages  in  all  the  thousands  of  Italians 
living  in  these  parts.  It  seemed  to  him  a  senseless, 
reckless  proceeding.  Here  were  all  these  "people  of 
their  own  flesh  and  blood  placed  absolutely  at  the 
mercy  of  an  embittered  enemy.  What  was  the  real 
meaning  of  this  Tripoli  business  ?  An  attempt  seemingly 
to  secure  by  force  what  otherwise  would  have  come 
gradually  and  naturally  into  the  hands  of  those  who 
were  cleverest,  most  industrious  and  most  persevering. 
In  reality,  the  entire  coast  belonged  to  Europe  already. 
Europeans  by  their  greater  efficiency  in  commerce 
and  industry,  their  more  systematic  methods,  their 
greater  wealth,  had  got  everything  into  their  own 
hands.  German  capitalists  were  constructing  all  the 
railways,  French  and  English  steamers  carried  all  the 
merchandise.  Turkey  had  become  a  name  merely ;  the 
Turkish  suzerainty  was  but  an  empty  word.  Slowly 
but  surely  all  the  native  inhabitants  were  being  ousted 
out  of  all  the  lucrative  employments.  The  conquest  of 
such  a  country  could  have  one  object  alone — that  of 
forestalling  and  excluding  other  European  rivals. 

Fontanara  shrugged  his  shoulders.  This  war,  which 
in  the  darkness  of  the  night  had  come  to  seem  to  him 
a  great  and  glorious  undertaking,  now  in  the  cold  light 
of  dawn  began  to  assume  the  aspect  of  a  very  dubious 
and  hazardous  speculation. 

He  shrank  from  this  view  of  it.    He  felt  angry  with 


264  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

himself.  That  was  doubtless  how  Italy's  enemies  were 
regarding  it.  Was  it  a  worthy  view  for  one  of  her  own 
sons  ? 

His  glance  turned  again  for  the  last  time  towards 
the  receding  mountains,  now  a  mere  blue  outline  in  the 
far  distance,  and  for  a  moment  all  his  old  feeling  for 
the  East  came  back  to  him  with  a  rush.  He  stretched 
out  his  arms  as  towards  a  cherished  friend  and  his  lips 
gave  out  the  words  : 

'  A  rivederci,  Yussuf  Hah  !  Come  what  may  to  me, 
we  must  and  shall  meet  again.' 

The  Mediterranean  was  not  in  the  sunny  mood  of 
which  the  poets  sing.  It  was  at  its  roughest.  Every 
now  and  again  an  unusually  big  wave  would  raise  the 
vessel  high  in  the  air ;  next  moment  she  seemed  to 
sink  into  the  depths.  Fontanara  himself  did  not 
mind,  but  the  hundreds  of  other  fugitives  suffered 
agonies.  They  were  mostly  women  and  children,  for 
the  men  had  been  prevented  by  business  from  taking 
flight  as  yet. 

Fontanara  gazed  at  the  passengers  between  decks. 
Probably  they  had  friends  and  relatives  waiting  at 
home  to  welcome  them,  and  for  them,  if  so,  the  voyage 
was  merely  an  inconvenience  soon  to  be  forgotten. 
But  what  of  those  who  could  never  get  away  ?  They 
were  absolutely  at  the  mercy  of  the  Turks.  This 
reflection  kept  coming  back  to  him  continually.  Italy, 
it  would  seem,  expected  the  Turks  to  safeguard  the 
lives  and  interests  of  the  Italians  in  their  midst.  He 
could  not  bring  himself  to  believe  that  their  welfare 
had  been  lost  sight  of  entirely. 

He  reflected  that  he  was  still  in  complete  ignorance 
as  to  the  cause  of  the  war.  It  must  surely  have  been 


LIES  265 

something  serious  and  compelling.  In  this  twentieth 
century,  no  Christian  state  would  embark  upon  hos- 
tilities unless  forced  by  considerations  which  made 
any  other  course  impossible. 

Tired  of  trying  to  solve  this  problem,  of  which 
the  factors  were  unknown  to  him,  he  sought  out 
the  captain  of  the  steamer.  He  explained  that  he 
had  come  from  the  desert,  where  any  newspapers 
to  be  seen  at  all  were  at  least  two  weeks  old,  and  that 
he  was  in  absolute  ignorance  about  the  war.  The 
commander  of  a  ship  plying  between  the  different 
Mediterranean  harbours  would  probably  be  well 
informed  on  the  subject.  In  a  word,  What  had 
caused  it  ? 

The  captain  eyed  his  questioner  curiously  and 
replied  with  a  sardonic  grin : 

'  Your  countrymen  think  they  are  the  stronger. 
That  is  always  cause  enough.' 

Fontanara,  angered  by  the  tone  of  the  answer, 
moved  away. 

The  voyage  seemed  to  him  unending.  He  bought 
heaps  of  newspapers  at  the  Greek  ports  at  which  they 
touched.  His  eyes  traversed  swiftly  the  columns 
devoted  to  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  but  he  could 
find  no  particulars  as  to  what  had  brought  it  about. 

Evidently  little  was  known  on  the  subject.  For- 
tunately he  would  soon  be  in  Italy  now.  Till  then  he 
must  only  be  patient. 

At  last !  They  had  reached  Brindisi.  Fontanara 
landed  here  though  his  ticket  was  for  Naples.  By 
taking  train  direct  to  Rome  he  would  save  two  days. 

The  railway  carriage  was  crammed.  He  listened 
attentively  to  the  conversation  of  his  fellow-travellers. 


266  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

They  talked  about  everything  under  the  sun  except 
the  one  thing  he  wanted  to  hear  about.  Whenever 
allusion  was,  by  chance,  made  to  the  war,  a  constrained 
silence  seemed  to  ensue. 

'  People  don't  know  what  to  believe,'  was  Fon- 
tanara's  mental  comment.  He  appealed  at  last  for 
an  opinion  to  a  taciturn  man  sitting  opposite  him. 

'  We  must  await  developments,'  was  his  diplomatic 
reply. 

The  train  rolled  along  over  the  familiar  country, 
stopping  at  stations  whose  names  were  well  known 
to  him.  Passengers  left  and  came.  Night  was 
approaching. 

'  Early  to-morrow  I  shall  be  in  Rome,'  Fontanara 
said  to  himself.  There  he  would  be  able  to  feel  the 
pulse  of  the  nation. 

His  first  impression  upon  arrival  was  one  of 
astonishment.  In  spite  of  his  fatigue  after  the  long 
journey  he  had  decided  to  make  his  way  to  his  brother's 
house  on  foot,  expecting  to  see  evidences  everywhere 
of  the  warlike  spirit  abroad.  But  there  was  no  sign 
of  it  whatever.  The  flags  and  the  martial  music 
appertaining  to  it  were  absent.  He  walked  slowly 
and  looking  about  him  in  every  direction.  It  was 
incredible  that  there  should  be  no  solitary  sign  of  a 
great  war  having  been  begun. 

By  the  time  he  reached  his  brother's  house  he  felt 
dead-beat. 

'  Good  morning,  Angelo  !  ' 

'  What,  you  !  What  in  the  world  brings  you  here  ?  ' 
Angelo  Fontanara  put  his  coffee-cup  aside  and  looked 
inquiringly  at  his  brother,  his  senior  by  three  years. 

Pietro  in  reply  outlined  as  briefly  as  possible  the 


LIES  267 

story  of  his  flight.  '  The  consul  considered  it  desirable 
to  get  me  out  of  the  way.  And  to  tell  the  truth  I 
have  been  eager  to  get  home,  as  I  heard  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  Angelo,  what  really  was  the  cause  of  the  war  ?  ' 

'  The  cause  ?  The  less  we  talk  about  that  the 
better  ! ' 

Pietro  Fontanara  eyed  his  brother  curiously. 
Was  it  with  this  highly  correct  government  official  as 
with  the  others — had  he  also  been  unable  to  come  to  a 
clear  conclusion  ?  Or  was  it  that  he  preferred  not  to 
express  it  ? 

Angelo  having  finished  his  petit  dejeuner,  threw  a 
glance  at  the  clock  and  announced  that  he  must  be  off. 
War  or  no  war,  government  officials  were  expected  to 
get  to  their  work  punctually. 

The  brothers  arranged  to  meet  again  at  noon,  and 
Angelo  made  ready  to  start. 

'  You  must  regard  yourself  as  absolutely  at  home 
in  this  little  dwelling  of  mine,'  he  said  as  he  left  the 
house,  continuing  with  a  slight  flush,  '  Perhaps  you 
don't  know  that  I  am  engaged  to  be  married  ?  I 
wrote  to  tell  you  a  week  ago,  but  you  can't,  of  course, 
have  had  my  letter.'  He  went  on  to  mention  his 
fiancee's  name.  Her  father,  he  added,  was  very  rich. 

Pietro  glanced  for  a  moment  after  his  brother. 
There  was  something  in  Angelo  that  seemed  un- 
familiar to  him — something  he  did  not  relish.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  sinking  into  a  comfortable 
arm-chair  he  looked  round  the  room. 

The  furniture  and  general  aspect  of  the  room 
evidenced  good  taste. 

After  he  had  rested  a  little,  he  went  out  for  a  walk 
through  the  city.  There  seemed  to  be  no  change  in  its 


268  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

appearance  since  the  hour  of  his  arrival.    He  spent 
part  of  the  morning  studying  the  newspapers. 

When  the  brothers  met  again  their  conversation 
was  constrained.  Angelo  was  careful  what  he  said. 
He  did  not  disguise  the  fact  that  he  was  chiefly  con- 
cerned with  his  own  career,  as  was  only  right  in  a 
prospective  paterfamilias.  The  war  ?  It  was  too  soon 
to  talk  about  it.  Well,  as  Pietro  was  so  keen  about 
it  ...  it  was  a  strategic  move  of  course — a  piece  of 
speculation.  If  it  came  off,  well  and  good  !  ...  If 
not  —  h'm  !  .  .  .  Angelo  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
Presently  he  confided  to  Pietro  his  intention  of  going 
in  for  politics.  As  soon  as  he  was  married  he  would 
have  the  necessary  means  .  .  .  Yes,  '  it  was  too  soon 
yet  awhile  to  know  what  to  say  about  the  war.' 

Pietro  was  disinclined  to  leave  the  matter  there. 
He  made  another  effort  to  extract  some  particulars  of 
the  cause  of  the  war. 

'  The  cause  ?  '  said  Angelo.  '  Well,  Turkey  has 
neglected  to  provide  herself  with  a  fleet,  and  we  needed 
something  as  a  set-off  against  the  Abyssinian  affair. 
Our  prestige  called  out  for  something.  Besides  our 
trade  required  new  markets  and  our  capitalists  required 
new  regions  to  exploit.  What  more  do  you  want  in 
the  way  of  causes  ?  ' 

Pietro  shook  his  head. 

'  What  I  want  to  know  is  this — what  has  Turkey 
done  or  failed  to  do  ?  Has  she  insulted  our  flag,  has 
she  perpetrated  any  injustice  against  any  Italian 
subjects,  or  has  she  .  .  .  ?  ' 

Angelo  burst  out  laughing. 

'  Turkey,  or  rather  the  Turkish  Government,  is  much 
too  wise  to  allow  anything  of  the  kind  to  happen.  The 


LIES  269 

Porte  was  in  possession  of  a  province  which  we  wanted. 
That  is  the  whole  story.  And  I  can  assure  you  that  if 
we  had  not  taken  it,  some  one  else  would  have  done  so. 
This  war  really  doesn't  amount  to  much  more  than  the 
winning  of  a  race.  As  we  had  begun  to  fear  that  other 
eyes  were  being  directed  covetously  towards  Tripoli, 
we  felt  we  had  to  strike  at  once.  It  was  a  question  of 
being  first ! ' 

'  So  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  buccaneering  raid  ?  ' 

'  Your  phraseology  is  not  very  happy.  I  am 
tempted  to  advise  you  to  avoid  such  expressions.' 

Pietro  Fontanara  made  no  reply. 

After  lunch  the  brothers  parted  without  any  excess 
of  cordiality.  Pietro  went  to  look  for  a  hotel,  and 
finding  one  that  suited  him,  engaged  a  room.  He  felt 
depressed.  His  return  home  was  not  what  he  had 
hoped  it  would  be. 

The  next  few  days  he  spent  visiting  his  friends  and 
acquaintances.  In  the  circles  in  which  he  moved 
people  maintained  an  attitude  of  expectation.  Every- 
one went  about  his  business  as  usual.  The  war  was 
treated  as  a  problem  in  economics.  The  lawyers  in  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies  busied  themselves  with  trying 
to  unravel  the  threads  that  the  Ministry  had  tangled 
together. 

Pietro  Fontanara  listened  attentively  to  all  he 
heard.  He  found  neither  enthusiasm  nor  indignation 
anywhere. 

'  All  Europe,  you  see,  is  looking  on  with  good- 
humoured  approval,'  said  an  old  professor  who  had 
asked  Fontanara  many  questions  as  to  the  result  of 
his  excavations  in  Asia  Minor.  '  All  we  really  have 
to  be  anxious  about  is  the  expense.' 


270  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  But  we  have  many  tasks  to  undertake  within 
our  own  frontiers — tasks  involving  great  expenditure. 
When  shall  we  set  about  them  ?  ' 

The  old  professor  gave  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

'  Wars  are  inevitable/  he  replied.  '  They  are 
inherent  in  nature,  and  are  in  keeping  with  the  law 
of  natural  selection.  Warfare  goes  on  always  and 
everywhere — it  is  with  the  lowest  organisms  as  it  is 
with  us.  Destiny  willed  it  so,  and  there  is  no  getting 
away  from  it.' 

Fontanara  returned  to  his  hotel  in  a  thoughtful 
mood.  As  he  was  passing  through  the  vestibule  the 
hotel-keeper  came  up  to  speak  to  him.  His  son 
Pietro — same  name  as  the  Signore — had  just  written, 
or  rather  the  doctor  in  whose  hands  he  was,  had  written 
for  him.  He  was  employed  as  portier  in  a  French  hotel, 
but  had  just  been  recalled  for  service  in  the  war.  '  To 
cut  a  long  story  short,  Signore,  the  boy  has  been  and  got 
run  over  by  a  motor  car  and  broken  a  leg  and  can't 
move.  Such  bad  luck  at  this  critical  moment  in  the 
history  of  the  country  ! '  The  hotel-keeper  accompanied 
this  grandiloquent  sentence  with  a  dramatic  movement 
of  his  hands  and  a  mournful  shake  of  the  head.  But 
he  looked  so  well  content  in  spite  of  himself  that 
Fontanara  saw  how  much  value  there  was  in  his 
protestations. 

'  Really  it  is  too  bad/  the  hotel-keeper  went  on. 
'  The  lad  was  so  keen  on  distinguishing  himself,  and  then 
for  this  to  happen  !  Of  course  his  return  to  his  regi- 
ment is  quite  out  of  the  question.  His  poor  mother 
is  weeping  her  eyes  out.  .  .  .  You  are  a  learned  gentle- 
man, Signore  ;  how  long  would  you  say  it  takes  for  a 
broken  leg  to  mend  ?  A  couple  of  months  ?  Not 


LIES  271 

more  !  ...  By  that  time  the  war  will  be  over — 
poor  boy  !  ' 

Fontanara  made  his  way  up  to  his  bedroom.  The 
hotel-keeper's  ill-concealed  delight  over  his  son's 
opportune  accident  pained  him.  It  might  not  be 
typical — it  proved  nothing  by  itself — but  it  added  to 
the  feeling  of  disillusionment  and  disgust  which  he 
was  experiencing  and  which  he  could  not  shake  off. 
Fortunately  there  was  the  Press  !  The  Press  was 
unanimous — the  papers  of  all  shades  of  political 
opinion  were  whole-hearted  in  their  enthusiasm. 

There  was  a  veritable  chorus  of  triumph  when  the 
telegrams  arrived  bringing  news  of  the  first  victories,  and 
many  thousands  who  had  felt  doubtful  about  the 
war  began  to  be  infected  with  the  elation.  The  question- 
able enterprise  had  received  the  sanction  of  success. 
Doubts  and  fears  and  criticism  were  no  longer  in  place. 

There  was  an  uninterrupted  run  of  good  news  from 
the  front.  The  Turks  were  in  retreat,  the  Arabs  were 
coming  over  to  the  side  of  the  invaders.  Victory  was 
assured.  How  could  any  other  result  have  been 
possible  ?  The  swift  onslaught  of  a  great,  well- 
equipped  army  must  inevitably  overcome  the  feeble 
resistance  of  the  meagre  forces  that  the  enemy  was 
able  to  muster.  Even  in  the  solitude  of  his  small 
bedroom,  Fontanara  could  not  keep  back  a  ringing 
'  Evviva  !  '  as  he  read  the  news. 

The  eldest  of  the  three  Fontanaras  now  arrived 
home,  also  unexpectedly.  Giuseppe,  a  manufacturer 
from  the  North,  was  depressed  and  pessimistic.  Pietro 
went  for  a  walk  through  the  city  with  him,  and  Giuseppe 
profited  by  the  occasion  to  unburden  himself  of  his 
anxieties. 


272  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  We  must  have  a  contract  with  the  army,'  he  said. 
'  If  we  don't  get  it,  it  will  be  a  case  of  shutting  up  our 
factories  and  getting  rid  of  our  workmen.  Our 
Eastern  business  is  ruined  for  ever.' 

Pietro  looked  distressed.  Surely  his  brother  was 
taking  too  gloomy  a  view  of  things  ? 

'  For  ever ! '  Giuseppe  repeated  emphatically. 
'  The  Germans  and  the  English  achieve  their  conquest 
of  the  East  by  peaceful  methods.  What  we  Italians 
had  won  for  ourselves  by  hundreds  of  years  of  work  has 
been  thrown  away  in  a  single  week.  The  greatest 
consumer  of  Italian  wares  has  turned  his  back  on  us. 
The  number  of  millions  involved  is  incalculable. 
Once  the  other  nations  have  got  hold  of  the  market, 
they  will  know  how  to  keep  it.  When  our  factories 
stand  idle  and  thousands  of  artisans  begin  to  go  in 
procession  through  the  streets,  we  shall  see  .  .  .' 
He  didn't  trouble  to  complete  the  sentence. 

'  You  will  get  the  contract  all  right/  said  Pietro 
to  keep  up  his  brother's  spirits  and  also  his  own. 

When  they  had  finished  their  walk,  Pietro  formed 
a  sudden  resolution.  He  would  go  for  a  walking-tour 
over  the  Campagna.  The  sun  was  shining  from  a 
cloudless  sky.  He  stepped  out  briskly,  glad  to  think 
of  this  wide  range  of  broken  country,  so  different  from 
any  other  he  had  ever  seen.  He  had  known  it  in 
childhood,  and  in  his  youth  he  had  taken  a  hand  on 
one  occasion  in  excavations  in  one  part  of  it. 

Soon  he  had  left  the  walls  of  Rome  behind  him. 
The  talk  with  Giuseppe  had  intensified  his  condition 
of  anxiety.  It  was  by  war  that  the  greatness  of 
ancient  Rome  had  come  about,  but  was  war  the  right 
means  for  building  up  a  modern  State  ?  Pietro 


LIES  273 

regretted  that,  in  devoting  his  time  to  researches  into 
the  past,  he  had  neglected  so  much  all  study  of  the 
present. 

A  breath  of  wind,  moist  and  cold,  from  the  north, 
fell  now  on  his  left  cheek.  He  stood  still  a  moment 
and  gazed  over  the  green  expanse.  It  occurred  to 
him  for  the  first  time  to  compare  in  his  mind  the 
surroundings  of  Rome  with  those  of  other  great 
cities  which  he  had  seen.  All  those  others — even  in 
the  far  North — had  a  fringe  of  outlying  villas  and 
parks  and  gardens,  but  here,  outside  the  walls  of 
Rome,  began  a  desert.  A  few  ploughed  fields,  a  few 
acres  of  clearing,  were  to  be  noted,  but  then  the  sun 
shone  upon  mile  after  mile  of  fertile  soil  in  which  no 
seeds  germinated,  no  grain  ripened. 

On  he  went,  almost  as  though  driven  by  some  force 
outside  himself  which  he  could  not  resist.  He  seemed 
to  be  on  the  alert  for  something — he  knew  not  what ; 
something  in  the  nature  of  an  answer  to  some  unformu- 
lated  question.  Presently  by  a  curving  footpath  he 
reached  a  height  which  commanded  a  panoramic  view 
of  indescribable  beauty.  The  immense  undulating 
plain  spread  out  before  him,  richly  green.  In  the  far 
distance  the  blue  mountains,  their  peaks  capped  with 
snow,  rose  like  a  gigantic  encircling  wall.  The  sun 
blazed  down  from  the  still  cloudless  sky.  Fontanara 
felt  oppressed  by  the  extreme  loneliness.  Nowhere 
was  there  a  sign  of  life ;  not  a  note  was  to  be  heard. 
He  went  on,  down  the  other  side  of  the  hill.  Not  far 
off  he  descried  a  farmyard  with  some  tumbledown 
buildings.  Two  skinny  hens  were  pecking  in  a  heap 
of  refuse.  The  farm  was  pitiable  to  look  at  in  its 
dismal  squalor. 


274  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

He  turned  away  his  eyes.  Involuntarily  he  be- 
thought him  of  that  far-off  era  when  the  Roman 
Campagna  was  a  magnificent  pleasure-garden,  in 
which  splendid  villas  built  of  marble  arose  amidst 
the  spreading  foliage  of  the  trees,  and  when  every 
inch  of  the  ground  was  turned  to  good  account  and 
afforded  both  food  and  labour  to  millions  of  men. 
And  now  .  .  . 

He  shook  his  head  sadly  and  gazed  along  the  path 
which  was  carried  through  a  ridge.  To  one  side  lay  a 
dark  cutting  that  led  to  a  disused  quarry.  A  dozen 
small  lizards  frightened  by  the  noise  of  his  footsteps 
slid  away  over  the  slaty  ground.  He  went  on  more 
quickly.  A  dilapidated  bridge  took  him  over  the 
dried-up  course  of  a  stream.  The  stones  still  holding 
together,  which  had  upborne  pedestrians  and  vehicles 
for  more  than  two  thousand  years,  looked  as  though 
they  might  defy  time  and  neglect  for  a  long  while  yet. 
To  the  right  the  mighty  arches  of  the  ancient  aqueduct 
traversed  the  undulating  plain.  Fontanara's  sense  of 
solitude  was  stronger  than  ever.  He  longed  for  the 
sight  of  a  man,  for  the  sound  of  a  human  voice.  At 
every  turning  of  the  path  he  looked  eagerly  round. 
But  he  met  no  one,  not  a  single  being  was  to  be  seen. 
Far  away  he  descried  some  sheep  grazing,  but  there 
was  no  sign  of  a  shepherd. 

Such  solitude  as  this  within  an  hour's  walk  of  the 
capital  was  almost  weird.  Fontanara  went  on,  ever 
hastening  his  steps.  The  thought  that  no  living 
creature  crossed  his  path  or  followed  behind  him 
urged  him  on. 

At  last,  after  walking  for  several  hours,  he  came 
upon  a  dilapidated-looking  inn.  He  heaved  a  sigh  of 


LIES  275 

relief.  Now,  at  last,  he  became  conscious  of  weariness 
in  his  limbs  and  that  the  perspiration  was  streaming 
down  his  cheeks.  He  felt  he  would  like  to  rest  a  little. 
The  white  wine  of  the  country  would  be  refreshing. 

An  untidily  dressed  woman  came  to  take  his  order 
and  brought  him  a  carafe  and  a  tumbler,  somewhat 
chipped.  He  peered  into  the  ill-lighted  rooms.  The 
dirt  and  disorder  baffled  description.  A  number  of 
frightened  hens  went  clattering  out  of  the  open  door. 
There  was  a  continual  buzzing  of  flies  from  the  ceiling. 
The  close  atmosphere  of  the  house  was  impregnated 
with  the  smell  from  a  cattle-shed  adjoining  it.  Pietro 
took  a  sip  of  the  sour  wine,  then,  discovering  finger- 
marks on  the  tumbler,  put  it  down,  and  strode  out. 
The  woman  seemed  to  take  no  offence. 

He  went  across  the  courtyard  to  the  pathway  again. 
A  small  black  pig  was  tied  by  one  of  his  hind-legs  to  a 
peg.  On  the  other  side  of  a  stone  wall  some  hundreds 
of  sheep  were  grazing.  Right  in  front  of  the  entrance 
was  a  dung-heap.  As  Fontanara  made  off  to  the  right, 
a  couple  of  half-naked  little  children  ran  up  to  him  and 
stretched  out  their  hands  for  alms.  They  had  not  all 
the  assurance  of  beggars  in  the  city,  but  they  were 
just  as  persistent.  In  order  to  get  rid  of  them  he  threw 
them  a  soldo.  It  was  accepted  in  silence,  but  it 
only  let  loose  a  dozen  other  childish  pesterers  of  all 
ages.  Almost  without  utterance,  but  with  out- 
stretched hands  and  covetous  eyes,  they  kept  on 
running  alongside  the  stranger  in  the  hope  of  his 
throwing  them  another  com.  He  found  it  a  painful 
experience.  All  these  pairs  of  hungry  eyes,  all  these 
unwashed  little  hands,  belonged  to  Italians.  Their 
poor  wizened  faces  looked  prematurely  old — old  and 

T  2 


276  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

without  hope,  and  yet  how  desperately  and  persever- 
ingly  they  stretched  out  their  hands  !  He  supposed 
they  did  so  from  force  of  habit — they  had  been 
taught  to  do  it. 

Presently  he  came  to  a  row  of  huts  made  of  rushes 
which  looked  like  shelters  for  sheep  or  goats.  Pietro 
stood  still  a  moment,  thinking.  Surely  he  had  seen 
these  before.  In  these  hovels  human  beings  made 
their  home.  The  walls  afforded  hardly  any  protection 
against  the  wind,  the  rain  could  stream  in  through 
the  roofs,  grass  and  bits  of  rag  served  for  flooring.  In 
the  centre  burnt  the  fire,  the  smoke  from  which 
found  an  outlet  as  best  it  might.  In  each  of  these 
dreadful  dwellings  lived  a  whole  family.  Therein 
children  were  born.  Therein  the  sick  and  the  old  met 
their  death. 

Pietro  shut  his  eyes,  horror-struck  at  the  sight. 
Opening  them  again,  he  gazed  reflectively  in  the 
direction  of  Rome.  In  the  East  he  had  witnessed 
many  things  that  had  aroused  his  indignation  and 
disgust,  but  nothing  to  equal  this.  Pulling  out  his 
purse,  he  scattered  all  the  silver  and  copper  it  con- 
tained upon  the  path. 

The  children  retreated  a  little,  startled  by  his 
manner,  some  of  the  smallest  scuttling  away  into  the 
huts.  The  bigger  boys  stood  on  the  defensive,  the 
girls  were  ready  for  flight,  in  case  this  stranger  should 
become  violent.  It  took  them  a  few  moments  to 
understand  that  the  money  was  really  for  them.  Then 
they  all  made  darts  for  the  coins  hi  every  direction, 
still  without  word  or  cry.  Their  whole  aspect,  but  their 
strange  voicelessness  above  all,  produced  so  painful 
an  impression  upon  his  mind  that  Pietro  hastened 


LIES  277 

away.  Glancing  back  over  his  shoulder,  he  noted 
that  a  woman  with  a  baby  at  her  breast  was  standing 
at  the  opening  of  one  of  the  huts  nearest  to  him. 
She  was  gazing  astonished  at  the  silent  struggle  going 
on  between  the  children.  Seeing  what  they  were 
about  she  hastened  to  join  them  in  order  to  get  her 
share  of  the  loot.  She  secured  a  coin  which  had 
rolled  to  one  side  of  the  path.  With  her  lower  jaw 
projecting  and  her  whole  countenance  expressing 
amazement,  she  stood  staring  after  the  stranger.  Her 
eyes  kept  turning  from  him  to  the  coin  in  her  hand 
and  back  to  him.  She  evidently  thought  he  must 
be  weak-minded.  This  idea  awakening  in  her  perhaps 
some  feeling  of  insecurity  in  regard  to  her  spoil,  she 
hurried  away  into  her  hut,  letting  the  cloth  which  did 
service  as  a  door  fall  down  behind  her. 

Pietro  clenched  his  fists.  A  shudder  ran  through 
him.  In  front  of  him,  high  up  on  a  hill,  stood 
Gabii.  He  made  the  ascent  as  rapidly  as  he  could, 
following  a  little-used  footpath  through  a  cut 
maize-field.  Soon  he  found  himself  standing  among 
the  ruins  of  the  ancient  temple  of  Juno.  Three  bare 
walls  of  hewn  stone  were  all  that  survived  of  a  populous 
city,  older  than  Rome.  Its  streets  and  houses  and 
market-place  lay  hidden  beneath  the  soil  from  which 
the  crops  now  growing  drew  their  nourishment.  The 
archaeologist  in  Fontanara  began  to  dream  of  buried 
marvels,  and  for  a  few  seconds  he  forgot  the  troubles 
of  the  present.  But  a  single  glance  into  the  valley 
sufficed  to  bring  him  back  into  reality.  There  lay  the 
huts  made  of  rushes  in  which  men  of  his  own  proud 
era  lived  their  lives.  The  Italians  had  done  scant 
justice  to  their  great  inheritance. 


278  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

He  laughed  out  loud,  harshly  and  bitterly,  as  his 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  war — this  war  waged 
against '  barbarians  '  in  the  interests  of  '  civilisation  '  ! 
Of '  civilisation,'  with  these  men  and  women  of  Italian 
blood  dragging  out  their  existence  in  hovels  and  under 
conditions  of  wretchedness  worse  than  anything  to  be 
seen  hi  native  villages  in  Africa  ! 

He  could  not  rid  his  mind  of  those  half- 
famished,  silent  creatures  to  whom  he  had  thrown  the 
coins. 

'  That  malaria  ! '  he  kept  saying  to  himself.  His 
cheeks  flushed,  and  his  eyes  grew  bright  with  scorn. 
The  country  had  not  money  to  keep  off  the  treacherous 
sickness,  but  it  could  find  the  means  for  a  buccaneering 
raid.  The  once  fertile  Campagna  could  not  be  reclaimed, 
because  this  would  require  sums  which  had  to  be 
expended  upon  warships. 

Millions  were  being  squandered  on  the  subjugation 
of  a  friendly  race ;  while  the  sons  of  the  soil  were  the 
victims  of  misery  and  starvation.  A  passage  from 
Aleardi's  poems  came  into  his  mind,  and  he  recited  it 
to  himself  out  loud  : 

'  In  every  furrow  of  our  sphere  there  grows  a 
sombre  plant — Death.  When  the  earth  in  summer- 
time lies  drowsily  silent,  surfeited  with  the  sun's  rays, 
thousands  of  reapers,  driven  by  the  pangs  of  hunger, 
appear  upon  the  scene,  coming  forth  like  condemned 
souls.  Their  eyes  become  dimmed  by  the  poisonous 
vapours  amidst  which  they  move,  and  no  bird  uplifts 
its  voice  to  gladden  their  hearts.  No  note  of  the  songs 
they  knew  in  their  mountain  homes  in  the  Abruzzi 
brightens  their  sad  wanderings.  In  silence,  they  reap 
the  crops  of  their  unknown  masters,  and,  when  at  last 


LIES  279 

their  wearying  work  is  done,  they  go,  as  they  came,  in 
silence/ 

The  thought  of  the  war  obsessed  him,  and  vainly  he 
struggled  against  his  feelings  of  mistrust  and  doubt. 
Was  it  really  conceivable  that  the  Italian  Government 
proposed  to  transform  the  deserts  of  Tripoli  into 
cultivated  land,  while  suffering  the  pestilential  area  of 
the  Campagna  to  remain  in  the  condition  in  which 
it  had  been  so  long  ? 

The  wind  blew  freely  up  on  this  height  by  the 
ancient  temple.  How  refreshing  it  was !  Pietro 
uncovered  his  head. 

A  squad  of  labourers  were  making  their  way  down 
the  path.  Gloomily,  silently ;  their  heads  bent ;  women 
as  well  as  men.  Their  eyes  on  the  ground  ;  their 
footsteps  slow  and  heavy.  These  were  the  occupants 
of  the  huts.  Behind  them  rode  an  overseer  with  a 
fowling-piece  slung  on  his  back  and  carrying  a  long 
pike  in  one  hand. 

What  Aleardi  had  described,  a  hundred  years 
before,  was  happening  still  to-day. 

There  was  a  ringing  in  his  ears,  and,  involuntarily, 
he  raised  his  hands  to  Heaven.  His  soul  rebelled 
against  a  state  of  things  that  permitted  such  evils 
to  exist  in  this  sun-kissed  land  of  Italy. 

The  squad  of  labourers  had  disappeared  in  a  hollow 
of  the  hill ;  only  the  overseer,  with  his  gun  and  pike,  was 
now  to  be  seen.  Like  a  procession  of  the  dead,  they 
came  into  sight  again,  then  disappeared  finally 
behind  the  huts.  The  overseer  rode  on  alone  to  the 
inn. 

Pietro  clenched  his  teeth,  and,  his  hat  still  in  his 


28o  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

hand,  set  forth  in  the  same  direction  as  the  labourers. 
'  My  countrymen ! '  he  exclaimed  out  loud,  and  the 
words  sounded  in  his  own  ears  like  an  impeachment. 

As  he  drew  near  to  the  huts  in  which  these  sad  and 
tongue-tied  wretches  found  their  refuge,  all  the  make- 
shift doors  seemed  to  have  been  carefully  closed.  Every- 
thing was  as  still  as  the  grave ;  but  Pietro  had  a  feeling 
that  he  was  being  watched  by  countless  eyes  through 
chinks  and  fissures.  Here  he  was  again ! — this 
extraordinary  stranger,  who  had  actually  thrown 
coins  about  on  the  road  !  It  was  safer  for  them  to  keep 
quietly  indoors  lest,  having  evidently  lost  his  way,  he 
should  suddenly  begin  to  repent  of  his  generosity  ! 

With  swift  steps  he  set  out  on  his  return  to  the 
capital.  What  he  had  witnessed,  he  assured  him- 
self, was  nothing  wonderful,  really,  and  was  in  no 
way  a  discovery.  He  himself,  on  his  tramps  abroad 
over  the  Campagna,  had  often  seen  these  herds  of 
silent,  weary,  fever-stricken  men.  Every  traveller  who 
broke  away  at  all  from  the  high  roads  was  bound  to 
come  across  them.  But  to-day  the  sight  of  them  had 
moved  him  as  never  before.  He  realised  the  reason. 
Against  the  background  formed  by  the  war,  the  dread- 
fulness  of  all  this  stood  out  more  sharply.  Why 
squander  millions  upon  a  dubious — perhaps,  unrighteous 
and  ignoble — war,  while  denying  succour  to  these  unfor- 
tunates who  could  not  help  themselves  ?  It  was  not 
resignation  in  face  of  a  cruel  destiny  that  had  stamped 
these  folk  with  the  character  they  bore  on  their  faces  : 
it  was  an  unreasoning  stupidity,  passed  on  from 
generation  to  generation,  that  kept  them  in  subjection, 
in  the  absence  of  all  that  could  make  life  bearable. 

He  recalled  some  words  that  he  had  come  across  in 


LIES  281 

a  newspaper — a  passage  from  a  speech,  so  well  as  he 
could  remember,  delivered  by  a  member  of  the  English 
Government : 

'  It  is  my  sincere  conviction  that  a  better  under- 
standing between  the  nations  is  quite  possible.  .  .  . 
Taxation  could  be  made  less  burdensome,  and  the 
money  that  could  be  saved  upon  armaments  could  be 
expended  upon  the  development  of  the  country  and 
the  amelioration  of  the  lot  of  the  people.  The  corner- 
stone of  finance  is  Peace  on  Earth  and  greater 
good-will  amongst  men  !  ' 

'  What  is  war  ?  '  Pietro  asked  himself.  '  How 
is  it  we  tolerate  this  nightmare  which  stands  in  the 
way  of  progress,  of  happiness,  of  all  that  is  worth  most 
in  life,  which  is,  in  truth,  life's  bitterest  enemy  ? 
What  is  the  explanation  ?  There  must  be  one.  What 
were  men  taught  to  think  about  it  by  Buddha  and 
Plato  and,  above  all,  by  Christ  ?  ' 

He  gave  it  up  ;  he  would  not  weary  his  brain  with 
it  any  longer.  It  was  hopeless.  With  a  bitter  laugh,  he 
quoted  Virgil's  saying  about  the  turmoil  of  war  being 
silenced,  and  the  Age  of  Brass  becoming  still.  A  false 
prophet,  Virgil !  The  turmoil  of  war  refuses  to  be 
silenced,  and  the  Age  of  Brass  remains  brazen. 

Fontanara  hurried  along,  as  though  seeking  to 
outrun  his  gloomy  thoughts.  But  there  was  no  es- 
caping from  them.  Again  and  again  he  asked  himself  : 
'  What  is  war  ?  What  is  war  ?  ' 

At  last  he  felt  he  could  no  longer  bear  it.  'I  must 
find  the  answer  for  myself,'  he  said.  '  At  all  costs,  I 
must  find  the  answer  for  myself — at  all  costs  !  I  must 
learn  ! ' 

His  mind  became  quieter.    It  seemed  to  him,  almost, 


282  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

as  though  something  had  germinated  in  him  that  would 
yield  the  solution.  He  walked  more  slowly,  squaring 
his  shoulders  and  holding  his  head  erect. 

The  Porta  Maggiore  came  in  sight.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  would  be  back  in  Rome.  He  brushed  the 
dust  off  his  boots  and  buttoned  up  his  coat. 

It  was  dark  when  he  entered  the  city.  His  excite- 
ment had  died  down,  and  he  felt  tired  and  hungry.  He 
looked  about  for  a  cafe.  A  cup  of  hot  coffee  was, 
perhaps,  the  best  thing  he  could  take  first. 

He  stepped  into  the  first  cafe  he  found,  and  sank 
down  upon  a  chair  and  gave  his  order.  In  his  keen, 
brown  eyes  there  was  a  look  of  strange  intentness.  He 
sat  with  his  head  leaning  forward,  as  though  listening 
to  voices  which  were  not  yet  uttering  the  word  for  which 
he  was  on  the  alert.  His  whole  figure  bent,  his  fists 
clenched  and  resting  upon  his  knee,  he  looked  the 
incarnation  of  concentrated  thought.  Suddenly  the 
spell  was  broken.  It  was  as  though  his  brain  had  been 
set  free. 

'  I  shall  go  myself  to  the  war  !  ' 

He  spoke  the  words  out  loud. 

The  waiter,  approaching  with  the  coffee,  stared 
at  him.  Fontanara  met  his  glance  and  repeated : 

'  I  shall  go  myself  ...  I  shall  go  as  a  volunteer  ! ' 

He  drank  off  his  black  coffee,  boiling  hot ;  put  a  lira 
on  the  table,  stood  up,  and  went  out.  '  I  must  learn 
what  war  is,'  he  murmured.  '  I  must  learn  what 
war  is.' 


'  Fontanara  !     I  hope  you  clearly  understand  that 
.  er  .  .  .  that   sort  of  slackness,  when  on   duty, 


LIES  283 

is  not  allowed  ?  You  have  a  rifle  and  cartridges  so  that 
you  may  use  them.  And,  although  the  enemy  was 
within  range,  you  just  lay  there  ...  er  ...  and 
gaped  at  him.  This  time  I  '11  let  it  pass  ...  er  ... 
but  don't  let  it  happen  again  !  '  Captain  Vitale  threw 
out  his  chest  and  looked  severely  at  the  offender.  He 
liked  this  six-foot  recruit  who  possessed  both  culture 
and  intelligence  ;  but,  all  the  same,  he  could  not  let 
such  a  flagrant  piece  of  negligence  pass  unreproved. 

Private  Zirilli  gave  a  slight  mocking  cough.  His 
comrade  and  chum,  Rapagnotti,  looked  down  sullenly. 
The  faces  of  the  others  expressed  nothing  but  curiosity. 

'  As  I  said  ...  er  ...  I  hope  you  will  manage 
better  next  time.'  Captain  Vitale  nodded  kindly.  He 
was  anxious  to  modify  the  severity  of  his  reproof. 

Pietro  Fontanara  stood  in  the  stiff  position  pre- 
scribed by  the  regulations,  and  looked  his  commanding 
officer  straight  in  the  eyes.  He  admitted  to  himself 
that  he  was  in  fault.  He  had  known  it  even  as  he  had 
lowered  his  rifle,  and  simply  gazed  in  astonishment  at 
the  creatures  who  had  suddenly  appeared  a  few 
hundred  yards  away  and  had  immediately  disappeared 
behind  a  sheltering  sand-dune.  The  red  fezzes  be- 
trayed them  as  enemies,  and  shots  immediately  began 
to  ring  out.  Pietro  Fontanara  alone  had  remained 
idle.  It  is  true  that  he  had  instinctively  seized  his 
weapon  and  aimed  at  the  Turks  whom  they  had  sur- 
prised. But,  before  he  could  shoot,  a  thought  had 
flashed  through  his  mind  :  '  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder  ! ' 
It  rang  like  a  trumpet-call  in  a  mighty  warning.  The 
rifle  sank  in  the  same  instinctive  manner  in  which  it 
had  been  raised  a  moment  before.  As  he  stood  before 
Captain  Vitale,  he  only  remembered  the  confusion^he 


284  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

had  felt.  His  comrades  were  shooting  on  either  side 
of  him  ;  far  away  the  enemy  answered  in  like  manner. 
Then  the  men  who  were  opposite  to  them  ran  off  with 
bent  backs ;  they  sprang  into  a  hollow,  bent  round  a 
sand-hill  and  were  out  of  sight.  At  his  right  hand 
Zirilli  was  still  firing  with  nervous  energy.  He  did  not 
cease  until  Rapagnotti  gave  him  an  emphatic  dig  in 
the  ribs,  and  then  he  looked  round.  He  had  the  look 
of  a  man  who  suddenly  awakes  from  a  heavy  sleep.  His 
eyes  glanced  in  all  directions  with  an  unsteady  and 
uncomprehending  expression,  his  whole  body  was 
trembling.  The  most  remarkable  thing  was  that 
Fontanara  knew  that  he  himself  had  the  selfsame 
appearance. 

On  his  return  the  patrol  leader  reported  Fontanara's 
conduct,  as  was  his  duty. 

Captain  Vitale  swung  round  on  his  left  heel  and 
disappeared.  After  taking  a  few  steps  an  idea  occurred 
to  him. 

'  Fontanara  ! '  he  called,  over  his  shoulder. 

'  Captain.' 

'  You  understand  that  it  is  not  for  my  own  pleasure 
.  .  .  that  it  happens  .  .  .  You  ...  I  ...  Oh  !  ... 
Well  .  .  .  You  understand.' 

Pietro  laughed  somewhat  feebly  but  in  a  friendly 
way. 

'  For  my  part  I  can  understand  that  the  affair 
strikes  you  as  rather  unusual.  You  are  a  novice  as 
yet,  and  the  others  have  often  been  under  fire.  But 
you  have  the  honour  to  belong  to  a  regiment  that  has 
distinguished  itself  in  many  ways,  and,  eh  ?  ...  You 
are  a  first-rate  shot  .  .  .  Yes  ?  ...  Ah  !  ...  h'm 

.  Addio!' 


LIES  285 

Pietro  returned  to  the  troops,  who  were  lying  in 
the  shade  of  a  steep  sand-dune.  The  corporal  who 
had  reported  him  looked  across  at  him  through  his 
half-closed  eyelids.  When  he  heard  how  mildly  the 
captain  judged  this  Fontanara  he  drew  his  own  con- 
clusions. Apparently  it  would  be  to  his  advantage 
to  close  his  eyes  to  the  vagaries  of  this  long  recruit. 
But  Zirilli  ostentatiously  turned  his  back  on  him. 
He  could  not  stand  this  puppy  who  had  come  to  play 
at  war  and  to  make  himself  important  at  the  cost  of 
old  soldiers.  His  friend  Rapagnotti  looked  at  Pietro 
with  sly  disfavour.  Had  it  been  he  who  had  behaved 
in  this  way,  there  would  have  been  a  regular  storm. 
It  was  unjust  to  make  such  a  difference  between 
comrades.  He  kicked  the  sand  angrily  and  muttered 
a  curse. 

Pietro  lay  down  full  length  on  the  ground  ;  he  was 
tired  and  wanted  to  sleep.  But  the  moment  he  closed 
his  eyes  his  brain  began  to  work.  He  did  not  regret 
the  impulse  which  had  driven  him  to  the  war.  The 
certainty  which  he  demanded  and  which  was  a 
necessity  to  him  was  no  more  in  the  unattainable 
distance.  He  felt  its  nearness ;  perhaps  the  next  hour 
would  give  it  him.  But,  nevertheless  .  .  .  Like 
pictures  on  an  endless  film,  memories  and  impressions, 
events  and  personalities  of  the  last  few  months,  flashed 
past  him  in  a  giddy  whirl. 

He  recollected  the  astonishment,  the  horror  even, 
of  his  relations  and  friends  over  what  they  called 
an  unfortunate  business,  and  smiled  at  the  thought  of 
the  press  notices  about  the  celebrated  archaeologist 
Pietro  Fontanara  having  resolved  to  go  to  the  front  as  a 
volunteer.  He  could  not  repress  a  feeling  of  bitterness 


286  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

against  this  distinction  which  had  come  upon  him 
so  suddenly.  Fontanara,  who  until  then  had  only 
been  noticed  by  a  small  learned  circle,  had  suddenly 
become  popular,  and  his  two  works  were  in  great 
demand  at  the  booksellers'.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
there  was  a  hint  of  bitterness  in  this  enthusiasm.  If 
that  which  he  held  as  simply  his  duty  was  in  reality 
a  great  deed,  why  did  not  many  another  follow  his 
example  ?  If  there  was  really  something  worth 
recording  in  the  fact  that  a  strong  man,  healthy  in 
mind  and  body,  hurried  to  the  aid  of  his  country,  then 
it  was  a  proof  that  war  was  an  out-of-date  ideal. 

In  the  meanwhile  he  was  not  allowed  much  time 
for  meditation.    Day  by  day  he  marched  round  and 
round   a   dusty   barrack   yard.     He   made   ceaseless 
movements    which    he    could    do    already,    repeated 
exercises  the  uses  of  which  he  could  not  understand. 
When  it  came  to  serious  business  he  would  have  no 
time  to  repeat  what  he  had  learned  :   a  number  of 
external  events,  which  no  one  could  foresee,    would 
determine  his  actions.     In  private  Pietro  said  as  much 
to  the  lieutenant  who  drilled  his  recruits  so  untiringly. 
The  young  man  did  not  even  understand  what  the 
recruit  meant.     The  exercises   were    written    in    the 
Army  Regulations,  therefore  they  must  be  right.     With 
the  burning  ardour  of    blind    enthusiasm    the    lieu- 
tenant embraced  these  Regulations.     Their  usefulness 
must  not  be  disputed  ;  criticisms  were  forbidden.     In 
consideration  of  the  position  of   the   tall  recruit,   so 
much  older  than  his    comrades,    he    did    not    take 
offence  at  his  remark,  but  he  thought  it   right   to 
warn  him  off  such  forbidden  thoughts. 

'  Dogmas/   thought   Pietro   at   the  conclusion  of 


LIES  287 

the  short  conversation.  He  was  an  educated  man  and 
could  guess  at  the  horror  of  the  young  leader  over  the 
rising  doubts  of  the  subordinate.  These  conscientious 
officers  had  something  of  the  religious  zeal  of  the 
clergy.  They  believed  blindly  in  their  task  and 
preached  its  doctrines  with  true  fanaticism.  With 
passionate  earnestness  the  young  lieutenant  hammered 
at  the  drills  with  his  recruit,  and  the  corporals  auto- 
matically nailed  down  all  those  innumerable  details 
which  go  to  make  a  finished  soldier.  As  Pietro  realised 
that  his  brain  was  gradually  being  emptied  of  its  former 
knowledge,  whilst  other  knowledge,  which  seemed  to 
him  unessential,  was  being  put  in  its  place,  he  began 
to  understand.  The  gigantic  machinery  which  had 
seized  him  in  its  grip,  along  with  the  others,  overawed 
him.  For  the  present  he  bowed  down  to  physical 
weariness,  but  cherished  the  doubt  as  his  most  precious 
possession. 

At  the  end  of  November  the  company  had  em- 
barked. The  voyage  had  been  quick  and  successful. 

The  first  impression  of  the  province,  for  the  posses- 
sion of  which  his  country  was  making  so  great  a 
sacrifice,  was  depressing.  Through  pouring  rain  the 
company  marched  past  shuttered  houses,  through 
streets  in  which  no  living  soul  was  visible.  The 
town  lay  as  though  dead.  Silent  and  sulky  the  men 
waded  on  through  wet  and  mud. 

The  first  sight  to  meet  their  eyes  before  the  gates 
of  the  city  was  a  row  of  gallows.  The  corpses  dangling 
from  them  swayed  hither  and  thither  with  the  wind 
and  the  water  dripped  from  them  in  a  melancholy  way. 
Pietro  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  but  that  the  dead 
had  been  criminals,  though  he  was  somewhat  surprised 


288  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

that  his  compatriots  should  employ  a  method  of 
punishment  unknown  in  Italy. 

Some  few  days  later  he  read  in  one  of  the  newspapers 
which  had  been  distributed  among  the  men,  that  the 
hanging  had  made  a  deep  impression  upon  the  Arabs. 
'  It  is  a  degrading  punishment,  which  locks  the  dead 
outside  the  gates  of  Paradise.  On  the  other  hand, 
shooting  is  regarded  as  the  death  of  a  hero,  which 
is  rewarded  by  Mohammed  and  the  Prophets  with 
everlasting  glory  on  the  other  side  of  the  grave.' 

Pietro  laughed  on  reading  this  official  statement. 
Besides  the  unforgivable  slip,  '  Mohammed  and  the 
Prophets/  the  notice  was  wrong  from  beginning  to 
end.  In  the  time  of  Mohammed  there  were  no  such 
things  as  firearms,  and  neither  in  the  Koran  nor  in 
any  other  Arabic  writings  of  a  more  or  less  sacred 
nature  is  there  any  intimation  that  any  particular 
mode  of  death  is  thought  dishonourable.  These  naive 
lies  in  a  report  which  would  be  published  throughout 
the  world  would  be  sure  to  arouse  offence.  The 
spreading  of  such  reports,  which  -anyone  could 
contradict,  was  obviously  absurd.  With  his  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  East  and  its  people  Pietro  could  not 
help  thinking  that  in  some  cases  the  punishment  had 
been  severe,  even  perhaps  unjust.  Well,  the  haste 
with  which  all  must  be  accomplished  in  war  explained 
a  possible  error,  even  if  it  did  not  excuse  it.  The 
pressure  of  unexpected  and  unforeseen  events 
hastened  the  verdicts  and  made  them  irrevocable. 
The  law  of  warfare  is  different  from  that  of  peace. 

The  deserted,  dirty  town,  and  the  gallows  with 
their  dangling,  dripping  corpses,  were  a  lasting  remem- 
brance to  Pietro  Fontanara. 


LIES  289 

The  two  hundred  soldiers  who  arrived  on  that 
dreary  November  day  were  destined  for  a  bersaglieri 
regiment  stationed  on  the  south-west  of  the  town  of 
Tripoli.  The  reserves  were  divided  among  the  different 
companies,  the  7th,  which  had  distinguished  itself  in 
many  ways,  receiving  the  largest  number. 

'  Fontanara ! '  At  this  name  Captain  Vitale 
paused  in  the  roll-call.  '  "  Marksman  "  stands  against 
your  name/  he  said.  '  Give  a  proof  of  your  skill.' 

Pietro  asked  for  a  playing-card.  An  officer  had 
a  pack  of  cards  and  was  ready  to  sacrifice  it.  Pietro  at 
once  fixed  a  five  of  spades  to  the  trunk  of  a  palm. 
From  a  distance  of  twenty  paces  he  shot,  one  after 
the  other,  the  five  black  spots  from  out  of  the  card. 

'  Excellent ! '  cried  Captain  Vitale,  louder  than 
usual.  '  You  could  join  ...  er  ...  a  circus.' 

Pietro  smiled  faintly  and  explained  that  he  had 
practised  shooting  daily.  When  one  had  passed  a 
long  time  in  a  wilderness  devoid  of  human  society 
as  he  had  done,  one  was  forced  to  seek  distractions 
of  this  kind.  Some  days  he  had  fired  a  hundred  shots. 
If  one  of  his  comrades  cared  to  hold  the  card  between 
his  fingers  he  would  divide  it  across. 

'  What  are  you  ?  '  asked  Captain  Vitale,  beaming. 
'  I  mean  what  is  your  occupation  ?  '  '  Archaeology,' 
he  repeated,  when  Pietro  had  told  him.  '  Archaeology 
...  oh,  a  scholar.  Well,  after  all  it  does  not  matter.' 
His  voice  was  kind,  almost  soothing.  Pietro's  smile 
had  vanished.  He  looked  down  thoughtfully.  Sud- 
denly Captain  Vitale's  left  hand  struck  him  heavily  on 
the  shoulder,  his  right  was  held  out  for  a  cordial  grip. 

'  Welcome,  comrade  !  We  heed  such  as  you.' 

Half  an  hour  later  Pietro  belonged  to  the  first 


290  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

half  of  the  second  section.  On  account  of  his  stature 
his  place  was  that  of  the  front-rank  man  on  its  extreme 
right.  That  was  a  post  of  honour,  for  the  men  in  this 
half-section  were  all  distinguished  soldiers  whose 
courage  and  bravery  had  often  been  proved.  Next 
to  him  Pietro  had  a  slender  youth  who  held  himself 
almost  limply.  But  he  soon  showed  that  he  was  but 
resting  when  standing  so  slackly.  He  was  as  lithe  as 
a  cat,  and  when  he  moved  away  he  seemed  to  glide 
noiselessly  over  the  ground.  He  told  Pietro  that  his 
name  was  Zirilli  and  that  he  had  already  been  under 
fire  several  times. 

'  I  was  in  the  great  bayonet  charge  last  month,' 
he  explained,  and  threw  out  his  chest.  '  You  should 
have  seen  the  Arabs  run.  But  we  were  quicker. 
Rapagnotti,  behind  me  there,  was  with  us  too.  He 
is  a  regular  spitfire.  He  was  always  in  the  middle 
of  it  all  and  hit  out  like  a  lunatic.  Afterwards  we 
discovered  that  the  butt-end  of  his  rifle  was  covered 
with  blood  and  great  tufts  of  hair.  He  can  .  .  .' 

'  Shut  up  ! '  interrupted  Rapagnotti,  grumpily,  and 
gave  the  talkative  Zirilli  a  shove  with  his  knee. 

'  I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes/  said  the  latter  in  self- 
defence.  And,  thinking  he  saw  a  slight  smile  round 
the  corners  of  Pietro's  lips,  he  added  hotly :  '  I  have  an 
illustrated  paper  in  my  knapsack.  There  is  a  splendid 
picture  of  our  bayonet  charge  in  it.  You  see,  I  was  once 
in  a  printing  office  and  so  I  know  all  about  these  things. 
Pictures  are  nicer  than  reading,  don't  you  think  ? 
Isn't  your  name  Fontanara  or  something  ?  As  soon 
as  we  are  off  duty,  I  '11  show  you  the  picture.' 

Pietro  took  no  heed  of  the  chatter,  but  glanced  over 
his  shoulder  at  Rapagnotti.  It  did  not  seem  at  all 


LIES  291 

unlikely  that  the  broad-shouldered,  somewhat  bent 
man,  with  his  gigantic  hands,  should  be  a  formidable 
opponent. 

From  Rapagnotti  he  turned  to  his  other  comrades. 
It  was  a  long  row  of  faces,  and  in  each  was  mirrored 
the  soul  of  a  free  man.  How  did  he  come  upon  such 
thoughts  ?  They  were,  one  and  all,  here  to  obey  others 
who,  again,  obeyed  those  above  them. 

Fontanara  had  a  feeling  that  the  problem  over 
which  he  pondered  so  deeply  grew  more  difficult  and 
more  complicated  as  he  studied  it.  But  at  the  same 
time  he  was  strengthened  in  his  determination  not 
to  allow  himself  to  be  scared  from  anything  which 
brought  him  nearer  to  his  goal.  With  utmost  zeal, 
therefore,  he  seized  the  first  opportunity  of  making 
new  observations.  When  the  reconnoitring  patrol 
was  sent  out  he  followed  the  corporal  with  hasty  steps, 
and  when  the  enemy  appeared  he  thought  '  Is  this  the 
answer  ?  '  But  the  experience  by  which  he  was  the 
richer  was  not  that  which  he  had  anticipated. 

After  this  came  the  half-friendly,  half-indulgent 
reproof,  which  probably  hurt  the  good  Vitale  who 
administered  it  more  than  him  who  received  it. 

'  He  knows  he  is  doing  his  duty,'  thought  Pietro, 
whilst  he  lay  motionless,  with  closed  eyes,  on  the 
sand.  '  If  only  I  were  just  as  certain  about  my 
duty.  .  .  ! ' 

Even  before  his  arrival  Pietro  had  heard  the 
regiment  to  which  he  now  belonged  spoken  of  with 
admiration  and  respect ;  and  if  any  portion  of  it  had 
been  specially  praised  it  had  been  Company  No.  7. 
It  had  been  through  hard  times,  as  was  proved  by  the 
many  gaps  in  its  ranks.  The  two  lieutenants  had 

U  2 


292  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

been  sent  home — one  a  cripple,  the  other  to  be  shut 
up  in  a  lunatic  asylum. 

'  They  say  he  is  incurable,'  said  Zirilli  when  he  told 
the  story  to  Pietro.  '  Overstrain,  or  some  such  stuff. 
But  he  was  a  regular  schoolgirl  ...  no  good  for  this 
sort  of  thing.' 

But  Captain  Vitale  was  a  better  sort  of  man.  At 
first  the  men  were  afraid  of  him ;  now  they  loved  him. 
He  cared  for  them  like  a  father,  shared  the  hardships  of 
the  soldiers,  guided  and  instructed  them  without 
sparing  himself.  Pietro  had  already  made  up  his  mind 
about  the  man,  and  gave  but  scant  attention  to  the 
chatter  of  his  comrades. 

'  Look  here,'  Zirilli  broke  in, '  I  've  never  shown  you 
those  illustrations.  You  wait :  you  're  going  to  see 
something  fine.'  He  drew  from  the  inner  pocket  of 
his  tunic  a  folded  piece  of  newspaper.  '  I  '11  always 
carry  it  about  with  me  in  future.  There  !  Well  ? 
What  price  that,  eh  ?  ' 

They  were  lying  flat  on  their  stomachs,  on  a 
high  sand-dune,  overlooking  the  whole  neighbourhood. 
Pietro  shifted  a  little  nearer  so  as  to  look  at  the  sheet 
which  his  comrade  had  unfolded. 

It  was  a  half-page  picture  from  an  illustrated 
journal.  The  first  thing  that  struck  one  was  an  Arab 
in  a  white  burnous  on  horseback,  who  was  in  the  act 
of  falling  over.  Around  him  were  grouped  other  Arabs, 
brandishing  swords  or  shooting  with  rifles  and  pistols 
of  a  very  unpractical  and  antiquated  pattern.  Trim 
bersaglieri  were  fighting  in  their  midst.  They  were 
parrying  the  sword-thrusts,  firing,  stabbing  with  the 
bayonet.  Their  bearing  was  faultless,  their  uniforms 
were  elegant,  the  plumes  in  their  hats  waved  in  the 


LIES  293 

breeze  ;  everything  about  them  aroused  the  impression 
of  overwhelming  power  and  triumphant  victory. 

Fontanara  shrugged  his  shoulders ;  he  had  seen 
pictures  of  this  nature  before. 

'  Do  you  believe  me  now  ?  '  asked  Zirilli,  rejoicing 
in  the  vivid  drawing ;  and  he  pointed  to  the  under- 
line— '  Our  regiment  .  .  . ;  the  date.  There,  read  for 
yourself  ! ' 

It  was  as  he  said.  The  illustration  was  intended  to 
represent  the  regiment's  famous  bayonet  charge. 
Pietro  remembered  having  questioned  one  or  two 
officers  about  it,  and  that  they  had  been  honest  enough 
to  tell  him  that  no  hand-to-hand  fight  had  taken  place ; 
and  here  lay  one  of  those  who  had  taken  part  in  the 
battle,  who  was  ready  to  give  any  number  of  details 
about  it  in  his  own  way. 

If  Pietro  had  told  him  that  the  officer,  whom  he 
was  bound  to  believe  and  obey,  had  denied  all  this,  he 
would  have  offended  Zirilli  deeply.  What  an  artist, 
probably  hundreds  of  miles  from  the  scene  of  action, 
had  imagined  and  put  together  on  his  drawing-board 
was  a  definite  proof,  whereas  his  own  observations 
had  faded  from  his  memory. 

Pietro  glanced  sideways  at  the  soldier.  There  was 
no  sense  in  undeceiving  him.  He  would  have  laid  his 
hand  unhesitatingly  on  the  cross  and  sworn  that  the 
drawing  represented  the  truth ;  and  thousands  of  his 
comrades  would  do  likewise.  Pietro  stared  thought- 
fully out  over  the  bare  country.  It  began  to  dawn 
on  him  with  what  an  incredible  number  of  lies  war, 
and  everything  connected  with  war,  was  surrounded. 
Old,  hali-formed  thoughts  and  new  ideas  crowded 
confusedly  in  his  mind. 


294  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  The  Campagna  and  its  poverty  .  .  .  Bah !  Hun- 
dreds of  people  die  of  starvation  every  year  in  London 
and  other  cities.'  This  war  was  just  exactly  the  same 
as  all  the  others.  His  countrymen  were  guilty  of 
no  worse  a  blunder  than  any  other  nations  might 
perpetrate  at  any  moment  .  .  . 

Zirilli  had  crawled  away  from  his  unresponsive 
companion  and  lay  beside  Rapagnotti.  The  latter 
said  to  him  in  his  sulky  voice  : 

'  He 's  stuck  up.     Best  hold  your  tongue  ! ' 

The  sun  set  quickly  in  the  west,  and  darkness  crept 
over  from  the  east.  A  blood-red  disc,  the  lower  part 
of  which  was  hidden  by  a  hill,  and  the  upper  edge  cut 
off  by  a  blue-black  cloud,  shed  a  sinister  light  on  the 
horizon. 

'  To  what  have  the  nations  attained  ?  '  thought 
Fontanara,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  setting  sun.  '  They 
have  built  a  prison  for  themselves,  splendid  in  its 
monumental  height,  terrible  in  its  oppressive  strength. 
They  are  unhappy  in  it  and  they  suffer.  And  yet  they 
sacrifice  their  lives,  their  happiness,  the  future  of  their 
children,  so  as  to  live  in  it.  And  why  have  they  built 
this  penitentiary  ?  Not  that  it  may  benefit  themselves, 
but  that  it  may  harm  others.  And  in  this  prison- 
school  the  generations  have  to  learn  the  impossible  : 
they  must  learn  to  settle  by  physical  force  the  conflict 
which  intellect  alone  should  decide.' 

The  upper  edge  of  the  sun's  disc  vanished  behind 
the  hill,  darkness  prevailed.  As  the  last  dying  ray  of 
light  trembled  across  the  blue-black  cloud,  a  light 
dawned  in  the  depths  of  the  inquirer's  soul.  The  light 
of  an  inspiration  flashed  across  the  darkness.  Dimly, 
nay  clearly,  he  saw  the  way  before  him.  The  unfinished 


LIES  295 

thought,  born  as  he  walked  in  the  Campagna,  grew  and 
took  shape.  .^.  . 


'  Are  you  writing  ? '  Captain  Vitale  looked  down 
at  the  note-book  in  Pietro's  hand. 

'  A  few  thoughts  and  observations/  replied  the 
soldier,  rising. 

'  A  new  book  .  .  .  eh  ? '  Vitale  screwed  up  one  eye 
and  looked  at  him  humorously  with  the  other.  '  I 
won't  disturb  you.'  He  nodded  kindly  and  walked  on, 
smiling. 

Pietro  shut  up  his  note-book  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket.  He  followed  with  his  eyes  the  fine  figure  of 
the  commanding  officer.  If  the  book  of  which  he  was 
now  dreaming  ever  saw  the  light,  Captain  Vitale  would 
receive  the  praise  which  he  had  earned  in  full  measure. 

The  captain  had  turned  again,  and  was  standing 
once  more  before  Pietro. 

'  Fontanara,  it  has  just  occurred  to  me.  You  are 
collecting  observations  ...  eh  ?  You  want  to  see 
and  learn.  Very  well !  In  the  course  of  the  next  week 
the  battalion  will  be  withdrawn  from  the  front  ...  to 
rest  ...  eh  !  You  understand.  I  will  arrange  that 
you  are  on  guard  at  headquarters.  Keep  your  eyes 
open  !  Eh  !  You  may  count  on  that.  .  .  .' 

It  was  in  this  way  that,  a  few  days  later,  Pietro  was 
given  his  post  at  the  headquarters  Intelligence  Depart- 
ment. On  his  left  came  up  a  straight,  broad  staircase, 
divided  into  two  flights  of  steps.  At  the  top  there  was 
a  large  hall,  in  which  half  a  dozen  staff  officers  were 
always  to  be  found.  Pietro  was  posted  at  a  doorway 
between  the  stairs  and  the  room.  Every  now  and  then 


296  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

an  orderly  went  by,  handed  a  dispatch  to  one  of  the 
officers,  and  went  out  again.  The  officer  who  had 
received  the  dispatch  hurried  through  one  of  the  four 
doors  of  the  hall  into  one  of  the  rooms  where  work  was 
in  hand.  Sometimes  officers  or  officials  of  higher  rank 
came  in,  who  asked  a  question  of  the  first  aide-de- 
camp they  came  across,  or  else  went  straight  to  one 
of  the  doors  and  disappeared  through  it.  Some  of 
them  got  through  their  business  in  five  minutes,  others 
remained  a  long  time.  When  anyone  of  this  kind 
passed  him,  Pietro  brought  his  rifle  to  his  side  and 
stood  stiffly  with  his  heels  clicked  together.  Nobody 
noticed  him ;  he  was  something  impersonal,  a  thing,  a 
decoration. 

He  noticed  that  one  of  the  doors  in  the  large  hall  had 
remained  closed  ever  since  he  had  been  at  his  post. 

The  comrade  whom  he  had  relieved  half  an  hour  ago 
had  whispered '  Arabs  '  to  him,  at  the  same  time  making 
a  gesture  in  the  direction  of  the  closed  door.  Pietro 
had  blinked  his  eyes  to  show  that  he  understood.  He 
concluded  that  the  tall,  one-eyed  native,  who  had  re- 
mained modestly  in  a  corner  all  this  time,  was  one  of 
the  above-mentioned  Arabs.  His  eyes  rested  for  a 
few  seconds  on  the  foreigner  in  his  long  robe  with  its 
many  folds.  The  man  was  obviously  waiting  for 
some  one.  Pietro  saw  nothing  interesting  in  him,  except 
perhaps  his  quick,  shifty  glance. 

Orderlies  came  and  went.  Staff-officers  came 
forward  in  turn  for  their  dispatches.  That  none  of 
these  contained  anything  important  was  to  be  gathered 
from  their  indifferent  bearing.  The  whole  business 
was  just  the  thing  which  had  to  be  done,  and  to  which 
everyone  had  to  accustom  himself. 


LIES  297 

Two  red  fezzes  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  suddenly 
attracted  Pietro's  attention.  He  was  not  mistaken, 
they  were  really  Turkish  officers.  Under  the  escort 
of  a  major  of  cavalry  they  came  slowly  up  the  stairs. 
Pietro  was  able  to  observe  these  two  enemies  at  his 
leisure. 

The  one,  apparently  a  captain,  was  tall  and  slight 
and  held  himself  upright  and  a  little  stiffly.  His  com- 
panion and  superior  officer  was  small,  somewhat  stout, 
and  badly  made.  The  expression  of  his  face  was 
almost  too  stupid  to  be  natural.  Knowing  nothing 
about  the  man,  not  even  his  rank,  Pietro  had  the 
feeling  that  he  was  dangerous.  His  stupid  face  was  a 
mask,  behind  which  lurked  something  very  different. 
The  sentry  stood,  according  to  regulations,  stiffly 
upright  and  looked  unblinkingly  at  the  Turks  as  they 
went  by.  The  short  stout  man  met  his  gaze,  and  taking 
it  to  be  a  salute  acknowledged  it  condescendingly. 

'  Under  a  flag  of  truce  ! '  reported  the  cavalry 
officer. 

The  officers  bowed  stiffly,  the  orderlies  stood  to 
attention.  Only  the  Arab  crept  farther  back  into  his 
corner  as  though  he  would  like  to  hide  himself.  When 
he  realised  that  this  was  impossible  he  turned  his  back 
to  the  room. 

The  two  Turks  stopped  at  the  door.  The  cavalry- 
man invited  them  to  come  in,  but  the  stout  man 
declined. 

'  Thank  you  ...  no  ...  as  you  see,  I  can  speak 
your  beautiful  language,'  he  said  in  broken  Italian. 
Then  he  continued  in  Turkish,  without  looking  at  his 
companion.  '  Keep  your  eyes  open  !  Count  the  ships 
in  the  harbour  !  And  anything  else  worth  noting  .  .  . 


2g8  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

take  it  all  in  ! '  The  smile  had  not  vanished  from  his 
lips  for  a  second,  and  in  the  same  breath  he  turned  to 
the  cavalryman,  explaining, '  Fermal  Bey  understands 
no  other  language  but  our  own.  I  was  saying  to  him 
that  we  could  not  by  any  chance  have  had  a  more 
courteous  guide  than  yourself.'  This  time  he  spoke 
fluently  in  French. 

'  Oh  Major  Assan  .  .  .  ! '  The  flattered  cavalryman 
smiled,  well  pleased. 

'  Shall  we  have  to  wait  long  before  the  general  .  .  .  ? ' 

'  I  shouldn't  think  so.  What  is  your  business  ?  ' 
A  captain  of  infantry  who  heard  the  question  came  for- 
ward and  shook  the  major  by  the  hand. 

'  The  wounded  in  the  district  south  of  Ain-Zara/ 
the  latter  explained  to  him. 

'  Oh  ! '  The  infantry  captain  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
'  A  six-hours'  armistice,  eh  ?  '  And,  as  Major  Assan 
nodded,  he  went  on  :  '  I  imagine  the  answer  will  be 
"  No !"  We  are  to  push  forward  without  a  halt, 
and  .  .  .'  He  stopped  suddenly,  bit  his  lip,  and 
moved  away. 

The  cavalry  officer  shook  his  head  regretfully ;  an 
officer,  near  by,  coughed  impressively. 

Pietro  understood.  The  infantryman  had  let 
something  slip  out  which  the  enemy  was  not  intended 
to  hear.  His  countrymen  tried  to  cover  up  his  blunder 
by  their  easy  manner,  and  they  were,  apparently, 
successful.  Major  Assan 's  face  never  altered  from  its 
dull,  good-natured  expression.  But  his  companion 
was  not  quick  enough  to  hide  his  delighted  surprise 
from  Pietro 's  searching  gaze. 

'  He  understands  French,'  was  Pietro's  first 
thought.  '  So  the  other  one  was  lying  when  he  said 


LIES  299 

he  knew  no  other  language  but  Turkish,'  was  his 
second.  Pietro  determined  not  to  let  the  envoys  out 
of  his  sight. 

'  Keep  a  good-look  out ! '  said  Major  Assan  plainly, 
in  his  mother-tongue,  to  his  companion.  And,  with 
the  same  charming  good  humour,  he  turned  to  the 
cavalryman  on  his  other  side  and  said :  '  Perhaps  I  am 
talking  to  you  too  much,  am  I  ?  But,  you  see,  we  are 
under  a  truce  now,  and  I  am  taking  the  opportunity 
to  practise  a  little.  You  never  know  what  may  be  in 
store  for  you,  either  in  peace  or  in  war.'  He  laughed 
heartily  at  his  own  pleasantry,  showing  two  uneven 
rows  of  yellow  teeth. 

The  door  which  had  been  shut  for  so  long  was 
opened,  and  a  white-robed  Bedouin  came  out. 

'  Gentlemen  ! '  The  cavalryman  signed  to  the  Turks 
to  come  with  him  whilst  he  went  on  in  front. 

The  Bedouin,  whose  bearing  and  appearance  were 
those  of  a  powerful  sheikh,  strode  slowly  across  the 
room.  As  he  passed  the  Turkish  officers,  the  captain 
stood  still  and  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes  with  a 
challenging  expression.  The  Bedouin  did  not  return 
his  gaze,  neither  did  he  avoid  it ;  he  went  quietly  by 
as  though  he  had  not  noticed  the  unaccustomed 
visitor  at  all. 

The  Turkish  captain  turned  half  round  towards  the 
Bedouin  and  it  seemed  as  though  he  was  about  to  say 
something. 

'  If  you  please,  captain  !  ' 

The  cavalryman's  words  brought  the  Turk  back 
to  himself.  He  smiled  rather  constrainedly,  bowed, 
and  went  on. 

Major  Assan  was  already  standing  by  the  open  door. 


300  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  You  stay  here,  Fermal  Bey !'  he  said  over  his 
shoulder.  And,  as  he  saw  that  the  cavalryman  was 
somewhat  taken  aback  at  this  command,  he  whispered 
confidentially  to  him  :  '  He  wouldn't  understand  a 
word  of  what  we  were  saying.' 

The  cavalry  officer  smiled  with  his  usual  suavity, 
stood  aside  for  the  major  to  go  in,  and  entered  behind 
him.  The  door  was  closed. 

The  Bedouin  sheikh  had  reached  the  staircase. 
The  Arab,  who  had  been  waiting  all  this  time  in  his 
corner,  glided  to  him  behind  the  Turk's  back.  He 
looked  at  the  other,  who  was  obviously  his  master, 
with  a  question  in  his  eyes. 

'  No  !'  said  the  Bedouin  haughtily,  in  Arabic,  quite 
certain  that  no  one  but  his  companion  could  under- 
stand him.  '  They  are  neither  strong  nor  clever. 
Let  them  waste  their  strength.  I  bide  my  time.' 
He  went  with  slow,  dignified  steps  down  the  stairs.  A 
sigh  broke  from  the  one-eyed  man.  It  seemed  to 
Pietro  that  it  was  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  looked  after  the 
two  men.  The  sheikh  carried  his  head  high  and  had 
a  springing  step.  Something  majestic  in  his  bearing 
was  combined  with  a  cat-like  suppleness  of  movement, 
and  his  proud,  calm  features  contrasted  strangely  with 
the  sly,  watchful  expression  in  his  eyes.-  The  one- 
eyed  man  shuffled  behind  him  in  his  yellow  slippers, 
humbly  and  with  bowed  shoulders. 

'  I  believe  that 's  Ibn  Hamkal,'  said  the  captain  who 
had  allowed  the  unfortunate  remark  to  escape  from 
him  a  little  before.  '  Sheikh  of  the  Beni  So-and-So. 
He  's  sure  to  be  a  valuable  ally.  A  thousand  horsemen 
of  all  kinds  don't  amount  to  much,  I  admit.  But,  then, 
there  's  the  example.  You  see,  there  's  the  example.' 


LIES  301 

He  held  forth  at  length  on  the  power  of  example,  and 
the  officer,  to  whom  he  was  pouring  out  his  words  of 
wisdom,  listened  to  him  patiently. 

Pietro  glanced  round  the  room.  The  Turkish 
captain  was  standing  at  the  end,  by  a  window,  from 
which  he  had  a  splendid  view  over  the  Roads.  He 
was,  apparently,  sunk  in  thought.  Pietro  looked  at 
the  officers  standing  round.  Ought  he  not  to  let 
them  know  that  the  envoy  understood  French  and, 
probably,  Italian  as  well  ?  But  supposing  he  were 
mistaken  .  .  .  what  then  ?  They  were  all  talking  in 
their  own  language.  Was  he  not  doing  wrong  to  keep 
silence  ?  He  took  a  step  forward.  A  staff-officer 
whom  he  had  not  seen  before  hurried  up  the  stairs  and 
threw  a  stern  glance  as  he  passed  at  the  careless  sentry, 
who  had  forgotten  to  salute. 

Pietro  returned  hastily  to  his  post,  and  stood 
rigidly  in  the  prescribed  position.  It  was  not  Pietro 
Fontanara  who  was  standing  there :  it  was  no  seeing, 
thinking  man,  but  an  insignificant,  easily  replaced 
part  of  a  mighty  piece  of  machinery  which  worked 
without  any  assistance  from  him. 

Before  Fontanara  could  make  up  his  mind,  the 
Turkish  major  returned.  The  captain  hurried  to 
meet  him. 

'  Did  you  see  ?  '    He  nodded  towards  the  stairs. 

'  Our  friend  Djafar  ?  Of  course  I  did.  There  are 
allies  that  you  would  rather  see  siding  with  your  enemy.' 
He  laughed  light-heartedly,  and,  as  he  had  no  notion 
that  the  sentry  in  the  doorway  understood  Turkish,  he 
added  unconcernedly :  '  You  've  had  a  good  look  .  .  .  ? 
That 's  right ! ' 

Accompanied    by    the    cavalryman    they   walked 


302  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

across  the  hall.  Those  who  were  present  followed  them 
with  their  eyes. 

'  Of  course  not,'  continued  Major  Assan  regret- 
fully. And  in  a  tone  of  voice  calculated  entirely  to 
mislead  his  listeners,  who  did  not  understand  Turkish, 
he  added  :  '  I  have  found  out  what  I  wanted  to  know. 
Their  expenses  now  run  up  to  two  millions  a  day.  In 
future  we  will  only  have  to  carry  on  the  war  in  routine 
fashion.' 

The  three  officers  descended  the  stairs,  and  the 
major  explained  to  the  cavalry  officer  that  he  had  told 
his  comrade  the  disappointing  reply  he  had  just 
received.  At  the  top  step  of  the  flight  the  little  Turk 
stopped  for  a  moment  and  looked  back.  A  look  of 
hatred,  triumph  and  malice  flashed  from  him  up  to  the 
large  room,  in  which  nobody,  except  the  sentry,  was 
giving  the  envoy  another  thought.  After  having  raised 
the  mask  for  a  second,  the  major  turned  round  and 
said  conversationally  to  the  cavalryman  at  his  side : 
'  In  these  days  it  is  not  enough  to  be  a  soldier :  one  has 
to  know  something  of  diplomacy  and  business  as 
well.' 

The  major  smiled  deprecatingly.  He  did  not  share 
his  enemy's  opinion  in  the  slightest,  but  he  was  too 
polite  to  disagree  with  him. 

That  flashing  glance  had  strengthened  Pietro's 
resolution. 

'  Sir ! ' 

The  infantry  officer  who  had  made  the  blunder 
stopped  short  in  his  pacing,  and  stared  in  amazement 
at  the  sentry.  '  Is  the  fellow  speaking,  or  have  I 
gone  mad  ?  '  his  look  seemed  to  say. 

'  Sir ! '  Pietro  repeated, '  the  Turk  who  was  waiting 


LIES  303 

out  here  understood  French,  and  I  think  he  probably 
knew  Italian  too.' 

'  What !  .  .  .  how  do  you  know  ?  ' 

'  I  know  Turkish  .  .  .  and  Arabic.' 

Several  officers  drew  near,  so  as  to  listen  to  the 
conversation. 

'  What  did  you  hear  ?  '  the  infantryman  asked 
curiously. 

'  First  of  all  he  told  his  companion  to  keep  his 
eyes  and  ears  open.' 

The  officers  nodded. 

'  Nothing  more  ?  '  said  the  infantry  officer,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  took  stock  of  the  sentry, 
saw  that  he  had  an  intelligent  face,  and  added  :  '  You 
concluded  that  they  were  spies.  That  sort  of  thing 
cannot  be  helped.  The  conditions  of  modern  warfare 
permit  that  .  .  .  under  certain  circumstances.'  And, 
as  he  liked  the  look  of  the  handsome  fellow  in  the 
doorway,  he  added  didactically :  '  Spying  is  an 
essential  part  of  the  conduct  of  war.  The  calling  is 
not  exactly  looked  up  to,  but  .  .  .  bah  !  We  ourselves 
have  hundreds  of  Arabian  scoundrels  in  our  pay.  The 
rascals  only  have  one  fault :  their  news  is  never  new, 
and  their  facts  are  never  true.  What  did  the  major 
say  as  he  passed  you  ?  ' 

'  The  expenses  run  to  two  millions  a  day,'  Pietro 
translated. 

'  Nothing  more  ?  '  cried  the  officer,  relieved,  and 
laughed.  '  Money  ! '  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
'  That 's  nothing  to  do  with  us.  Many  thanks  all  the 
same  !  I  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  intelligence  in  the  ranks  is  ... 
hem.'  He  nodded  condescendingly,  and  moved  away. 

Pietro     stood    motionless,    staring    before    him. 


304  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Although  he  could  not  quite  understand  where  the 
connection  came  in,  he  seemed  to  have  a  fleeting  vision 
of  his  elder  brother's  anxious  face. 

Company  number  seven  was  stationed,  until  further 
orders,  in  a  valley  between  two  high  sandy  ridges.  Their 
outposts  were  on  the  southern  hill ;  the  regimental 
convoy  was  packed  behind  the  northern  one.  Nearer 
to  the  city  there  was  an  artillery  camp,  and  still  farther 
off  were  a  provisional  commissariat  depot  and  a  small 
hospital.  Before  them  stretched  the  desert.  Pre- 
sumably the  enemy  lay  somewhere  to  the  south. 

The  second  in  command,  Lieutenant  Carello,  came 
up,  full  of  youth  and  gaiety. 

'  Volunteers  ! '    he  cried  heartily.     '  Volunteers  ! ' 

Benedetti,  the  comrade  in  the  rank  behind  Pietro, 
stood  up  and  looked  questioningly  at  his  officer. 

'  Well,  you,   Fontanara  .  .  .  eh  ?  ' 

The  lieutenant  smiled,  showing  his  white  teeth. 

Pietro  rose  hastily.  The  best  way  to  rouse  himself 
that  he  knew,  was  a  long  march,  and  he  had  need  of  it. 

Zirilli  and  Rapagnotti  joined  Pietro.  The  first 
half-section  was  composed  of  a  picked  lot  of  men  :  it 
was  important  to  keep  up  prestige.  The  other  soldiers 
fell  into  position. 

'  Eight  men  and  the  corporal  ...  no  more  ! ' 
The  lieutenant  gave  the  word  to  march,  and  the 
reconnoitring  patrol  moved  forward. 

Their  road  was  towards  the  east,  along  the  southern 
ridge  of  hills.  Captain  Vitale,  who  was  everywhere 
at  once  and  let  nothing  escape  him,  came  running  up. 

•  Carello  ! ' 

[_The  lieutenant  stood  still  until  the  captain  had 
overtaken  him. 


LIES  305 

'  They  are  not  far  off.  Keep  your  eyes  open.' 
He  pressed  the  lieutenant's  hand. 

With  a  few  long  strides  the  lieutenant  came  up 
with  his  patrol  again  and  took  his  place  at  its  head. 
The  leather  of  his  revolver-holster  creaked  loudly  at 
every  step. 

The  patrol  swung  past  the  eastern  spurs  of  the 
sandy  ridge,  leapt  into  a  newly  made  trench,  and, 
bending  down,  continued  their  way  towards  the  west. 
Before  them  lay  a  small  plain  on  which  nothing  was  to 
be  seen.  Behind  them  rose  the  long  sandy  ridge. 
When  the  trench  came  unexpectedly  to  an  end  they 
marched  on  after  the  lieutenant  had  swept  the  horizon 
with  his  field-glasses. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  rapid  marching  the 
patrol  came  to  a  natural  hollow  way  with  steep  sides. 
Cactus  plants  had  taken  root  here  and  there  between 
the  layers  of  slate,  and  a  shrub,  the  name  of  which 
Pietro  did  not  know,  grew  at  intervals  in  great  pro- 
fusion. An  advanced  post  was  stationed  farther  up 
the  pass.  The  non-commissioned  officer  in  command 
hurried  up  to  report.  Nothing  suspicious  had  been 
seen  the  whole  of  that  day. 

Lieutenant  Carello  nodded  '  Good-bye  '  and  went 
on  up  the  pass. 

'  Now  we  're  really  at  the  front.'  He  smiled  over 
his  shoulder  at  his  men. 

Zirilli  giggled,  and  the  shadow  of  a  smile  flitted 
across  Rapagnotti's  sulky  face. 

The  impetuous  Carello,  who  modelled  himself 
as  much  as  possible  on  his  chief,  was  beloved  in  the 
ranks.  Pietro  involuntarily  threw  back  his  shoulders. 
There  was  something  of  the  excitement  of  an  adventure 


306  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

in  this  cautious  advance  towards  an  unknown  goal. 
Benedetti  panted  heavily  beside  him. 

In  a  hollow  of  the  pass  the  lieutenant  stood  still 
and  looked  back.  Through  his  field-glasses  he  could 
discern  a  few  dark  forms  on  the  crest  of  the  sandy 
ridge.  Men  were  posted  there  with  signalling  flags, 
and  more  than  one  good  pair  of  eyes  were  searching 
the  ground  in  front  of  the  patrol.  He  was  being  sup- 
ported from  the  rear.  The  lieutenant  gave  the  order 
for  the  march  to  continue. 

A  kilometre  farther  on,  the  pass  ended  at  a  hill 
down  which  sand  and  stones  had  slipped.  The  patrol 
had  come  to  a  far-stretching  hollow  of  the  desert.  To 
the  west  the  sand-waves  undulated,  one  behind  the 
other ;  to  the  east  the  ground  lay  as  flat  as  a  pancake. 

Lieutenant  Carello  frowned  and  meditated.  Im- 
mediately afterwards  he  went  up  the  steep  slope  on 
his  right.  He  lay  on  the  ground  and  swept  his  field- 
glasses  slowly  along  the  horizon.  Nothing  but  sand- 
waves  was  to  be  seen.  Not  one  speck  broke  its 
monotony.  Somewhere  towards  the  south  a  group  of 
palms  rose,  shadowy,  formless,  like  a  half-faded  fata 
Morgana. 

'  Corporal !  You  will  stay  up  there  with  two  men.' 
The  lieutenant,  who  had  climbed  nimbly  down  into  the 
pass,  indicated  the  two  last  men  in  the  patrol.  '  Have 
your  signal-flags  ready ;  we  may  have  need  of  them. 
Forward  ! '  Carello  started  off  again. 

Pietro  marched  a  few  paces  behind  him;  behind 
him  again,  Benedetti,  Zirilli,  Rapagnotti  and  the  others. 
The  level  plain  was  on  their  left :  if  danger  threatened 
from  that  side  they  would  perceive  it  in  good  time. 
On  their  right  were  the  hills  through  which  ran  the 


LIES  307 

hollow  way.  The  corporal  was  on  the  highest  point 
with  his  two  companions :  if  anything  suspicious 
occurred  he  would  warn  them  by  a  shot.  To  the 
south-west  were  the  rigid-looking  waves  of  sand.  The 
question  was  whether  the  enemy  was  in  ambush  there. 

The  patrol  moved  slowly  forward  in  the  loose  sand, 
which  made  a  slight  crunching  noise  as  their  feet  sank 
into  it. 

Benedetti  suddenly  gave  a  cry  and  fell  to  one  side. 
Three  or  four  shots  rang  out  immediately  afterwards. 

Rapagnotti  threw  himself  flat  on  the  ground. 
Zirilli  followed  his  example.  The  others  stood  for  a 
few  moments  as  though  petrified. 

'  Down  .  .  .  down  ! '  the  lieutenant  commanded 
impatiently. 

As  though  their  legs  had  been  knocked  from  under 
them  the  soldiers  threw  themselves  on  to  the  sand. 
'  Fontanara  .  .  .  down  .  .  .  don't  you  hear  ! '  The 
lieutenant  spoke  excitedly,  almost  angrily. 

Pietro  lay  flat  down  like  the  others.  They  gazed 
around  them  eagerly,  looking  in  all  directions.  There 
was  a  whirring  in  the  air,  right  over  Pietro's  head,  and 
he  pressed  closer  into  the  sand. 

'  Back  ! '  Lieutenant  Carello  had  thrown  a  light- 
ning glance  over  the  ground  and  had  taken  in  the 
situation. 

The  patrol  had  the  ridge  of  the  hill,  alongside  of 
which  they  had  marched,  behind  them.  Towards  the 
west  the  ridge  joined  the  sandy  stretch ;  to  the  east 
lay  the  plain,  dipping  towards  the  centre  and  from 
thence  rising  in  slow  undulations.  Now,  as  before, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  in  that  direction.  '  Back  ! 
.  .  .  quicker  ! ' 

x  2 


308  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

The  lieutenant  crawled  backwards  on  hands  and 
knees.  At  the  foot  of  the  ridge  the  ground  formed  an 
oblong-shaped  dip  in  which  there  was  better  shelter  to 
be  had  than  on  the  level  ground.  In  half  a  minute 
they  had  reached  the  little  hollow. 

'  Do  you  see  anything,  Fontanara  ?  ' 

No  matter  how  Pietro  strained  his  eyes  he  was 
still  unable  to  locate  the  enemy. 

'  And  they  know  where  we  are.'  Lieutenant 
Carello  bit  his  lips.  Benedetti  groaned  softly.  The 
patrol  leader's  thoughts  took  another  turn. 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  Where  are  you 
hurt  ?  ' 

Benedetti  pointed  to  the  calf  of  his  left  leg. 

'  Let  me  see ! '  The  lieutenant  ripped  up  his 
trouser  leg.  '  Nothing  much  ...  a  slight  flesh- 
wound  !  There,  there  is  my  handkerchief.  Help  him, 
Rapagnotti !  Wrap  it  tight  round.  I  am  afraid  we 
shall  have  to  run.' 

Benedetti  looked  in  horror  at  his  lieutenant.  The 
latter  had  already  turned  away  from  him.  Every  now 
and  then  there  was  a  whirr  over  the  heads  of  the  men. 
Then  there  followed  a  dull  thud,  which  was  accompanied 
each  time  by  a  grating  sound.  When  they  looked 
round  they  noticed  how  small  portions  of  sand  would 
detach  themselves  from  the  hill  behind  them,  coming 
sliding  and  rattling  down.  They  were  aware  that  bullet 
after  bullet  was  hitting  the  slope.  But  where  the 
marksmen  were  hiding  themselves  they  could  not 
discover,  for,  in  the  certainty  of  being  hit,  no  one 
ventured  to  stand  up  and  look  over  the  ground. 

'  Holy  Madonna  and  all  the  Saints,  where  .  .  . 
where  ?  ' 


LIES  309 

'Sir  .  . .  over  there.'  Zirilli  pointed  towards  the  plain. 

Far  away  in  the  distance  behind  them  a  row  of  dark 
spots  moved  towards  the  hollow  way  which  they  had 
just  now  passed  through. 

'Those  are  not  the  ones  who  are  firing  on  us, 
those  .  .  .'  There  was  a  tinkling  sound  as  though  a 
metallic  substance  had  struck  the  lieutenant's  sword 
sheath,  and  a  shot  rang  out  quite  near  by.  '  Hush,  men, 
quiet ! '  Carello  warned  them  softly. 

Pietro's  pulses  throbbed ;  what  was  this  ?  Invisible 
enemies  were  making  them  their  target,  perhaps  from 
their  hiding-place  they  would  shoot  them,  one  after  the 
other.  ...  He  glanced  to  one  side  and  met  Zirilli's 
eyes.  Fathomless  fear  was  in  their  depths.  A  dizzy 
feeling  of  the  nearness  of  death  shook  Pietro.  Was  he, 
unresisting,  to  be  the  victim  of  these  invisible  rifles  ? 
he  asked  himself,  while  at  the  same  time  his  lips  formed 
soundlessly  again  and  again  the  words  '  We  are 
lost.'  Zirilli's  horror-struck  eyes,  Rapagnotti's  hoarse 
groans,  Benedetti's  wailing  that  resembled  the  in- 
articulate cries  of  a  beaten  dog,  all  united  in  one  horrible 
whole  that  seized  his  consciousness  with  the  numbing 
grip  of  an  evil  dream. 

'  No,  no,'  he  cried  aloud,  and  with  a  movement  as 
though  tearing  himself  away,  he  rose  to  his  knees  and 
brought  his  rifle  to  his  shoulder  and  pointed  it  towards 
the  plain. 

'  They  are  too  far  away ! '  The  lieutenant  laid  his 
hand  on  his  arm. 

At  the  same  moment  a  shot  rang  out  and  a  ball 
whizzed  past  close  to  Pietro's  head. 

'  There  ...  I  saw  him  ! '  cried  the  lieutenant 
triumphantly. 


310  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

With  one  stroke  this  assurance  changed  the  situa- 
tion. Pietro  turned  round  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
sandy  crest  of  a  ridge  to  the  right.  Zirilli  raised  his 
rifle,  waiting.  Rapagnotti's  groans  and  Benedetti's 
whimpering  died  away. 

'  Now  show  your  skill,  Fontanara  !  '  ordered  the 
lieutenant  in  an  unnatural  toneless  voice.  '  Perhaps 
our  lives  may  hang  on  it.' 

Pietro's  brain  was  blank,  all  his  being  was  con- 
centrated in  his  eyes.  Motionless  he  waited  as  though 
cast  in  bronze.  The  muzzle  of  his  rifle  pointed  towards 
the  west,  parallel  with  the  slope  of  the  sand-hill  behind 
them ;  his  cheek  was  pressed  to  the  butt. 

A  red  fez  rose  up  over  yonder ;  at  a  distance  of  a 
few  hundred  yards  the  light  shone  feebly  on  the  barrel 
of  a  gun. 

Pietro  fired.  In  the  same  second  as  the  shot  rang 
out,  he  knew  that  he  had  hit  his  mark. 

'  Now  I  see  our  position  clearly.'  Lieutenant 
Carello's  voice  was  once  more  calm  and  resonant. 
'  Quiet  now,  men !  towards  the  hollow  way  .  .  .'  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

All  looked  towards  the  plain.  It  was  deserted. 
The  black  dots  had  sunk  into  a  hollow  of  the  desert. 
Even  if  they  did  not  reach  the  ravine  before  the  patrol 
their  rifles  would  sweep  the  open  plain  before  them. 

The  lieutenant  continued  hurriedly : 

'  Over  there,  towards  the  south-west,  there  are  six 
or  eight  men.  Those  are  they  who  have  been  firing 
at  us  the  whole  time.  There,  they  are  going  to  send  us 
a  reminder  again.' 

A  clump  of  sand  slid  down  the  slope  and  announced 
where  the  ball  had  hit. 


LIES  311 

'  They  have  detached  a  few  men,  probably  good 
shots.  Those  are  they  to  the  right  of  us.' 

'  Sir,  do  you  think  that  we  .  .  .  ? '  Zirilli's  white 
lips  opened  and  closed  several  times,  but  he  did  not 
finish  his  sentence. 

'  No/  came  the  harsh  answer.  '  Benedetti,  can  you 
keep  up  ?  There,  never  mind,  you  must ! ' 

Pietro  threw  a  searching  look  back  towards  the 
sandy  ridge.  Apparently  the  retreat  would  be  across 
it. 

'  No  !  '  Lieutenant  Carello  cried  again.  '  Over 
there.'  He  pointed  towards  the  west.  '  We  will  retreat 
by  a  detour.  This  trench  stretches  a  long  way.  It 
will  be  a  bit  of  shelter.  Fontanara,  keep  a  good  look 
out  .  .  .' 

Pietro  had  not  lost  sight  of  the  sand  waves  to  the 
right.  His  rifle  flew  to  his  shoulder,  and  the  shot  rang 
out  simultaneously  with  the  lieutenant's  command. 
Zirilli,  Rapagnotti,  and  another  man  fired  almost  at  the 
same  time.  In  spite  of  straining  their  eyes  to  the  very 
utmost  they  could  not  make  out  anything  in  that 
direction. 

'  Now  !  '  Stooping  low  the  lieutenant  ran  along 
a  small  hollow  by  the  slope  of  the  hill.  But  he  was  in 
no  great  hurry,  and  looked  round  often.  The  young 
lieutenant  was  responsible  for  these  men.  Like  a 
pang  of  physical  pain  he  felt  once  more  the  horror 
which  had  gripped  him  when  he  saw  how  near  they 
were  to  panic.  '  Benedetti,'  he  cried,  '  close  behind 
me  !  Fontanara  !  You  others  three  paces  behind.' 

In  a  long  line,  looking  now  to  the  left,  now  in  front, 
the  soldiers  ran.  Their  eyes  glowed  and  their  hands 
grasped  their  rifles  with  a  firmer  grip.  The  enemy 


312  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

had  closed  in  on  them,  had  enticed  them  into  a  trap, 
they  saw  that  now  .  .  .  but  they  would  not  surrender 
.  .  .  not  they ! 

The  Turkish  patrol  in  the  south  quickened  its  firing. 
Shots  whizzed  and  whirred  over  and  round  the  runners, 
but  no  one  was  hit.  All  was  quiet  in  front  of  them. 
The  handful  of  enemies,  who,  as  the  lieutenant  sup- 
posed, were  still  in  hiding,  had  either  cleared  out 
or  were  awaiting  a  favourable  opportunity.  Perhaps 
they  had  been  hit.  Zirilli  began  to  laugh  aloud. 
'  Such  donkeys — to  hell  with  them/  he  chuckled. 

Lieutenant  Carello  once  more  glanced  back  over 
his  shoulder.  No,  fortunately  it  was  not  one  of  those 
inexplicable  outbreaks  during  which  men  do  foolish 
and  dangerous  deeds.  It  was  courage  and  the  lust  of 
battle  that  he  read  in  those  heated  faces.  The  instinct 
of  self-preservation  had  given  them  the  strength  to 
act ;  he  held  the  men  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 

In  ten  paces  they  would  reach  the  wave  of  sand. 
Should  they  breathe  for  a  moment  or  charge  up  its 
slope  without  a  pause  ?  Were  the  Turks  on  the  far 
side  ?  And  if  so,  how  many  ?  A  dozen  different 
questions  buzzed  at  the  same  time  through  the  lieu- 
tenant's brain.  He  had  no  time  to  think  of  the 
answers.  He  would  obey  the  impulse  of  the  moment, 
trust  to  chance,  to  ...  They  had  reached  the  ridge  of 
sand. 

'  Now  !  '  Lieutenant  Carello 's  voice  thrilled  with 
determination.  He  imparted  his  feelings  to  the 
soldiers.  When  he  pointed  with  his  Browning  pistol 
to  the  crest  they  understood  him  instinctively.  The 
hindermost  hastened  their  steps  with  one  accord  ;  in  a 
solid  group  they  dashed  forward.  Zirilli's  laughter 


LIES  313 

passed  into  angry  exclamations.  A  hoarse  growling 
came  from  Rapagnotti's  throat.  Benedetti  shouted 
as  though  possessed  and  waved  his  rifle  over  his 
head. 

The  men  waded  through  the  sand,  into  which  they 
sank  up  to  their  ankles.  Their  eyes  rolled,  their 
faces  dripped  sweat,  their  chests  rose  with  each  sobbing 
breath.  All  ran  with  open  mouth;  some  uttered 
inarticulate  cries,  others  panted  hoarsely.  Had  they 
given  themselves  time,  they  would  have  seen  that  the 
Turkish  patrol — about  eight  men,  the  lieutenant 
thought — was  about  six  hundred  yards  away.  They  had 
come  out  of  their  cover  and  were  blazing  away  their 
cartridges  unceasingly.  Would  the  scouting  party,  cut 
off  from  its  line  of  retreat  and  almost  surrounded, 
escape  them  after  all  ?  It  was  disappearing  over  the 
crest  of  the  wave  of  sand,  where  it  would  have  cover 
and  be  very  likely  to  come  off  without  hurt.  Of 
course  there  was  an  old  corporal  and  two  men  over 
there  in  the  way,  but  they  were  doing  nothing.  Why 
did  they  let  an  enemy  get  so  close  ?  The  soldiers 
in  the  Turkish  patrol  fired  in  a  raging  hurry,  but  the 
enemy  continued  to  run  on. 

Lieutenant  Carello  and  his  men  had  forgotten  that 
they  were  being  fired  on  from  that  side. 

'  Forward  !  '  The  lieutenant's  voice  rang  out  trium- 
phantly. They  were  on  the  top  of  the  ridge  of  sand. 
'  Down  .  .  .  down ! '  The  young  man  looked  round 
with  hasty  glances.  They  were  safe  from  the  eight  rifles 
out  there  in  the  desert.  The  crest  of  the  ridge  covered 
them  ...  at  last.  And  the  men  ?  A  few  of  them 
had  thrown  themselves  down  full-length,  exhausted. 
At  his  side  lay  Benedetti,  his  rifle  ready  to  fire.  But 


314  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

what  in  the  name  .  .  .  '  Fontanara !  Don't  you 
hear  ?  Down,  down  ! ' 

Pietro  stood  immovable,  his  arms  crossed  over 
the  muzzle  of  his  rifle.  His  temples  throbbed  like 
hammers,  his  brain  was  on  fire.  He  had  run  like  the 
others.  The  excitement  had  doubled  his  strength. 
When,  in  advance  of  all  the  rest,  he  reached  the  top  of 
the  wave  of  sand,  his  looks  were  irresistibly  drawn 
towards  a  body,  lying  on  the  ground,  five  paces  in 
front  of  him. 

Something  familiar  in  the  lines  and  position  of  the 
figure  awakened  new  and  unexpected  ideas  in  him. 
He  stood  still.  It  seemed  to  him  as  though  he  had  run 
blindfold  against  a  wall,  and  had  been  thrust  back. 
Confused  and  dizzy,  he  stood  before  something  incom- 
prehensible. The  wave  of  lust  for  battle  and  revenge 
sank  within  him.  A  whirlwind  of  froth  and  foam 
overcame  him,  rose  and  fell,  and  returned.  His 
body  refused  to  obey  him,  his  brain  hummed  like  a 
top,  as  though  turning  round  an  axle  which  had 
suddenly  grown  in  its  midst. 

'  Down ! '  bellowed  Lieutenant  Carello  in  a  rage. 

Pietro  did  not  hear  him.  With  the  stilted  move- 
ments of  an  automaton  he  advanced  towards  the 
body  and  stood  beside  it. 

'  I  never  took  your  hand  in  farewell,  Yussuf  Hali,' 
came  softly  from  his  pale  lips.  '  In  the  hurry,  the 
confusion  .  .  .  You  understand  now.  But  I  did  say 
that  if  it  depended  upon  me  we  would  see  each  other 
once  more.  We  have  seen  each  other.'  He  bent 
down,  and  said  with  infinite  tenderness,  but  with 
shuddering  bitterness :  '  I  did  my  duty,  just  as  you 
did.  Farewell,  Yussuf  ! ' 


LIES  315 

'  What  is  the  fellow  doing  ?  What  does  he  mean 
by  such  behaviour  ?  '  The  lieutenant's  voice  was 
angry.  Was  this  another  of  those  inexplicable  out- 
breaks of  which  soldiers  are  occasionally  guilty  ? 
He  opened  his  mouth,  about  to  repeat  his  cry  of 
'  Down/ 

Suddenly,  ten  or  twelve  paces  away,  a  shot  rang  out. 
Benedetti,  who  was  still  kneeling  beside  his  officer, 
screamed,  spread  out  his  arms  and  fell  backwards. 
Another  shot  followed.  The  lieutenant  gazed  in 
astonishment  at  his  left  arm.  It  burned  and  glowed 
as  though  it  were  being  pierced  with  a  red-hot  needle  ; 
he  could  no  longer  raise  it.  After  this  things  moved 
quickly.  Zirilli,  who  with  the  other  men  had  been 
staring  at  Pietro,  sprang  up.  His  eyes  glittered  un- 
steadily, and  the  crazy  laugh  again  came  from  his  lips. 
Suddenly  he  started  to  run  forward,  his  rifle  held  as  a 
club.  Now,  too,  the  others  saw  what  he  saw.  Over 
there,  in  a  hollow,  lay  a  Turk  on  his  back.  He  was 
wounded  in  the  abdomen  and  could  not  move  from  the 
spot.  That  it  was  an  old  corporal  was  shown  by  the 
chevrons  of  soiled  braid.  His  eyes  were  lack-lustre, 
his  bristly  moustache  hung  over  his  mouth.  He  under- 
stood that  the  enemy  would  soon  discover  him,  and 
that  his  life  was  lost.  All  at  once  he  took  his  fate 
into  his  own  hands.  He  collected  his  powers  for  a  last 
blow,  and  hurled  a  few  unbelieving  dogs  before  him 
into  eternity  .  .  .  '  Bism'  Allah  !  ' 

With  fixed  bayonet,  Zirilli  hurled  himself  upon  the 
wounded  man.  The  corporal  with  the  glazing  eyes 
parried  the  blows  feebly  but  so  cleverly  that  they  did 
not  touch  him.  His  movements  were  guarded,  careful 
and  well-judged,  they  spoke  of  long  practice.  His 


3i6  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

look  expressed  contemptuous  unconcern.  He  had 
to  die  :  what  matter  ?  They  all  came  to  that. 

The  soldiers  had  sprung  up  in  astonishment.  Some 
of  them  stared  at  Zirilli  and  his  opponent.  One  of 
them  pointed  his  weapon  at  the  wounded  man,  but 
did  not  venture  to  shoot  for  fear  of  hitting  his 
own  comrade.  Suddenly  Rapagnotti  uttered  a  loud 
scream.  The  peasant  who  had  slaughtered  so  many 
cattle  had  an  idea.  He  seized  his  rifle-stock,  and  held 
the  weapon  as  if  it  were  a  club.  In  a  few  long  strides 
he  reached  the  combatants.  The  rifle-butt  whirled 
through  the  air,  and  descended  from  behind  on  the 
corporal's  head.  There  was  no  change  visible  in  the 
corporal's  face :  it  remained  as  though  carved  in  wood. 
He  received  his  death-blow  with  the  same  stolid 
indifference  that  he  had  shown  throughout  the 
encounter.  He,  like  the  others,  had  done  his  duty. 
'  Bism'  Allah  ! '  Blood  and  brains  were  scattered 
around,  but  Rapagnotti's  blows  did  not  cease.  Blow 
upon  blow  was  struck  unconsciously  by  the  peasant. 
At  times  the  club  struck  the  dead  body,  at  times 
the  ground.  The  blows  were  rained  down  unceasingly 
and  with  tremendous  force,  and  were  accompanied 
with  a  sort  of  hoarse  shout. 

Still  uttering  his  senseless  laugh  Zirilli  withdrew 
from  beside  his  comrade.  The  other  men  stood  in 
quaint  and  unnatural  attitudes,  their  jaws  dropping 
in  astonishment  at  this  display  of  insane  rage. 

'  Rapagnotti ! '  Lieutenant  Carello,  holding  up  his 
wounded  arm  in  his  right  hand,  stared  open-eyed. 
'  Rapagnotti ! '  he  cried.  '  Man  ! ' 

Pietro,  roused  from  his  thoughts,  understood.  He 
signed  to  several  of  his  comrades,  but  they  drew  back, 


LIES  317 

refusing  to  understand  his  intention.  Suddenly  with  a 
quick  movement  he  tore  the  gun  from  Rapagnotti's 
grasp. 

The  latter  awoke  as  though  from  a  trance  and 
looked  around  him  wildly.  He  was  still  panting  from 
his  exertions,  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  cried  in  a 
gurgling  voice  : 

'  I  am  hungry.'  His  senses  returned,  he  looked 
at  his  comrades,  read  something  in  their  manner, 
turned  his  eyes  towards  the  misused  corpse  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  '  Well,  it 's  over/  he  said, 
sulkily.  '  Shut  up  ! ' 

Lieutenant  Carello  sighed.  Here  again  was  that 
inexplicable  something  that  was  always  meeting  one, 
now  here,  now  there,  that  something  about  which  one 
did  not  speak,  and,  if  one  was  wise,  one  did  not  think. 
Besides,  he  had  something  else  to  do.  His  wounded 
arm  pained  him.  Benedetti  was  .  .  .  yes,  he  was 
dead.  And  where  was  the  enemy  ? 

'  Back,  march  !  Over  there  ! '  He  pointed  towards 
the  north-east.  '  We  are  going  back  to  the  ravine. 
Help  me,  Fontanara.  We  must  be  back  before  night. 
It  may  be  dangerous  to  pass  through  our  outposts 
in  the  dark.  Have  you  a  handkerchief  ?  Thank  you. 
Tie  it  tight  round.  I  have  lost  blood  ...  I  am 
rather  giddy.' 

The  scouting  party  retired  rapidly.  It  had  done 
its  work,  and  confirmed  the  presence  of  the  enemy  at 
a  short  distance  from  the  Italian  outposts.  Lieutenant 
Carello  leant  heavily  on  Pietro,  a  man  walked  on  his 
left  side,  two  others  carried  Benedetti's  body  on  their 
rifles.  Sometimes  the  hands  and  sometimes  the  feet 
of  the  corpse  dragged  in  the  sand.  The  men  threw 


3i8  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

quick  looks  behind  them.  Nothing  pointed  to  the 
fact  that  they  were  followed  by  the  Turkish  patrol,  the 
greater  portion  of  which  was  so  far  off  in  the  plain 
that  they  had  nothing  to  fear  from  it. 

'  Do  you  think  they  have  understood  that  they 
should  withdraw  ?  '  asked  the  lieutenant  wearily. 
Objects  seemed  to  be  turning  round  about  him,  and 
he  walked  sometimes  as  though  he  trod  on  air.  How- 
ever, he  conquered  his  weakness.  His  responsibility 
towards  his  subordinates  gave  him  the  strength  to 
hold  out.  '  Do  you  think  they  have  escaped  ?  '  He 
was  thinking  of  the  corporal  and  the  other  two  whom 
he  had  left  behind  with  the  signal-flags  at  the  end  of 
the  hollow  way. 

Pietro  did  not  hear  him.  He  walked  with  his  head 
thrown  back  and  his  gaze  unwaveringly  fixed  above. 
His  features  were  motionless,  as  though  petrified,  and 
the  expression  of  his  face  resembled  that  of  a  sleep- 
walker. His  brain,  however,  was  working  clearly  and 
logically. 

'  Of  course — yes/  he  said  quietly  to  himself.  '  The 
thing  is  quite  simple  and  natural.  Yussuf  Hali  used 
to  be  a  soldier.  There  was  nothing  else  for  him  to 
do  in  Asia  Minor — no  more  than  there  was  for  me. 
He  came  over  here  .  .  .  just  as  I  did ;  and  we  shot 
at  one  another :  it  is  all  quite  simple  and  natural.' 

Lieutenant  Carello  glanced  at  the  soldier  at  his 
side.  He  was  uneasy  about  the  stiff  attitude  and  the 
fixed  staring  of  his  eyes. 

'  Do  you  think  the  corporal  and  the  other  two  have 
got  away  ? '  he  murmured.  A  slight  feverishness 
clouded  his  thoughts,  and  he  clung  closely  to  Pietro's 
arm. 


LIES  319 

'  Oh  !  I  am  so  hungry/  groaned  Rapagnotti,  behind 
them. 

The  short  twilight  fell. 

'  The  hollow  way  ! '  cried  Zirilli,  pointing  towards 
the  right. 

The  lieutenant  raised  himself  up  and  blinked  his 
eyes  a  few  times  as  though  to  disperse  the  fog  with 
which  he  was  surrounded.  Oh  !  Then  they  had  gone 
due  north  instead  of  north-east.  He  led  Pietro  to  one 
side  and  the  latter  followed  him  like  an  animal  obeying 
the  rein.  Lieutenant  Carello  shook  his  head.  What 
had  happened  to  the  man — what  was  the  matter  with 
him  ? 

They  reached  the  hollow  way.  If  the  lieutenant 
was  able  to  judge  rightly  in  the  dim  light,  they  were 
at  most  a  hundred  paces  from  the  outposts.  The 
soldiers  slid  noisily  down  the  slope.  All  were  sensible 
of  a  feeling  of  security.  No  Turks  were  awaiting 
them  here. 

'  Holy  Madonna !  How  hungry  I  am/  sighed 
Rapagnotti. 

The  patrol  marched  forward,  all  precaution  was 
forgotten.  Zirilli  was  humming  a  street  song.  Down 
there  in  the  hollow  it  was  pitch  dark. 

Suddenly  a  voice  sounded  at  a  little  distance.  It 
called  something.  What  was  it  ?  Instinctively  the 
soldiers  moved  closer  together  and  tried  to  pierce  the 
darkness  with  their  eyes. 

'  What  is  the  matter  ?  '  Lieutenant  Carello  asked 
feebly.  He  had  walked  some  distance  with  closed 
eyes  and  hanging  head.  '  What  .  .  .  Fontanara  ?  ' 

A  shot,  followed  closely  by  two  more,  blazed  in 
front  of  them.  The  cracks  sounded  right  behind  them. 


320  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

'  All  simple  and  natural,'  murmured  Pietro,  and 

fell  full-length  to  the  ground.  He  drew  the  lieutenant 
down  with  him  as  he  fell. 


'  Quite  simple  and  natural,'  said  Pietro  softly,  as 
he  opened  his  eyes.  He  glanced  round  the  little  white- 
washed room,  wearily  closed  his  eyes,  and  then  looked 
up  again.  Yes  ;  everything  that  had  happened  was 
quite  simple  and  natural.  A  soldier  had  seen  some 
vague  shadows  rise  up  before  him.  The  darkness, 
the  silence,  and  the  sounds  that  had  arisen  from  it,  had 
made  him  nervous.  He  held  a  loaded  rifle  in  his  hand, 
and  he  knew  that  it  was  his  duty  to  shoot  as  soon  as 
he  saw  anything  suspicious.  Even  so,  he  had  taken 
the  trouble  to  call  out  something  to  the  advancing 
shadows.  They  heard  the  words,  but  could  not 
understand  them ;  and,  as  no  answer  came,  the  soldier 
fired.  The  rifles  of  the  two  comrades  near  him  went 
off,  although  they  did  not  know  what  was  happening. 
A  bullet  bored  a  way  through  Pietro's  body,  a  few 
millimetres  over  his  heart.  '  All  quite  simple  and 
natural/  Pietro  repeated. 

He  smiled  weakly,  and  thought  of  Doctor  Del 
Ponte,  a  fellow  graduate  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
ten  years,  but  whom  he  had  met  here  quite  unex- 
pectedly. Thanks  to  Del  Ponte,  they  had  put  him  in  a 
room  to  himself. 

'  In  a  bad  way  ! '  the  doctor  had  whispered  to  the 
hospital  orderlies,  who  were  surprised  that  a  mere 
private  should  receive  such  consideration,  and  looked 
at  their  superior  with  open  eyes. 

So     Pietro    lay    in    an     iron     bedstead,    with 


LIES  321 

comparatively  clean  sheets  and  a  blanket,  on  which 
remained  the  dried-up  traces  of  his  predecessor's 
vomitings. 

'  Try  to  sleep  ! '  nodded  Del  Ponte.  '  You  need 
it.' 

Pietro  looked  up  painfully  at  his  college  friend  and 
closed  his  eyes  again.  He  seemed  to  be  sinking  through 
an  infinite  space.  Stretched  on  his  back,  he  fell 
through  the  universe.  Sometimes  he  went  with 
tremendous  speed,  sometimes  he  floated  slowly  down, 
or  lay  motionless  in  nothingness.  Then  the  dizzy  fall 
began  again ;  new  constellations  revealed  themselves, 
and  he  slid  past  suns  and  stars  into  the  depths.  Then 
he  lost  himself ;  he  was  no  longer  there.  He  had  lost 
consciousness. 

When  Pietro  awoke  from  his  heavy  sleep,  he  was 
calm.  So  long  as  he  remained  quite  quiet,  he  had  a 
comfortable  sensation  of  well-being.  But  if  he  moved 
even  a  finger,  a  hot  stab  shot  through  his  left  side. 
Aha  !  .  .  .  even  the  fact  that  a  fellow-countryman's 
bullet  had  laid  him  low  was  simple  and  natural.  He 
realised  that  he  really  ought  not  to  be  thinking  at  all. 
For  some  time  he  managed  to  avoid  doing  so.  His 
eyes  wandered  round  the  whitewashed  walls  and 
rested  on  the  table  with  its  medicine  bottle  and  glass 
of  water.  He  raised  his  hand.  That  hurt  his  side, 
and  he  lowered  it  again. 

'  I  mustn't  think,'  he  said,  and  listened  to  the 
sounds  about  him.  On  the  other  side  of  the  door,  out 
in  the  passage,  he  could  hear  the  shuffling  steps  of 
some  one  in  felt  slippers  and  the  light  tapping  of  a 
stick  or  a  crutch  on  the  stone  flags.  '  A  wounded 
man,  who  is  convalescent/  he  murmured.  '  No ;  I 


322  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

mustn't  think,  mustn't  .  .  .'  Underneath — or  was  it 
next  door  ? — some  one  groaned  softly.  He  strove  to 
hear  more  distinctly.  '  Another  wounded  man,  a  ... 
No,  no ;  I  mustn't  think ! '  An  anxious,  questioning  look 
came  into  his  eyes.  His  whole  being  seemed  to  listen 
eagerly.  '  That  is  a  dying  man,'  he  said  softly.  And, 
suddenly,  he  seemed  to  hear  wailing  and  groaning  all 
round  him.  From  below  the  unearthly  sounds  stole  up 
to  him  through  the  floor ;  on  either  side  they  penetrated 
the  walls ;  they  echoed  from  the  ceiling.  The  whole 
building,  from  top  to  bottom,  was  full  of  wailing  and 
moaning.  The  foundations  shook  ;  the  walls  vibrated 
with  it.  All  the  horror,  all  the  pain  and  torment, 
which  had  been  suffered  within  these  walls  and  which 
were  renewed  day  by  day,  filled  the  room  and  seemed 
to  form  an  essential  part  of  the  atmosphere.  The 
agony  of  the  wounded ;  the  despair  of  the  maimed ;  the 
terror  of  the  dying,  face  to  face  with  the  inevitable ; — all 
this  flung  itself  upon  him  and  swept  like  waves  over 
his  head.  And  now  he  saw  clearly.  In  each  corner 
of  the  room  a  clear  stream  of  blood  trickled  down, 
dripped  on  to  the  floor  and  spread  outwards.  The 
stream  was  swelling  like  a  rising  flood ;  in  a  little  while 
it  would  reach  the  bed.  .  .  . 

'  Del  Ponte  !  ...  Del  Ponte  !    Help  ! ' 

An  orderly  put  his  head  in  at  the  door  and  stared 
for  a  few  seconds  at  the  patient.  Then  he  vanished. 

Pietro  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  Luckily,  the  orderly 
had  left  the  door  open.  The  blood  was  flowing  out 
into  the  passage.  He  did  not  want  to  drown  in 
blood. 

Doctor  Del  Ponte  came  in  and  shut  the  door  behind 
him. 


LIES  323 

'  Good  day,  Fontanara  ! '  He  pressed  the  wounded 
man's  hand  and  felt  his  pulse. 

'  It  Js  nice  of  you  to  come,  Del  Ponte,'  said  Pietro. 
'  I  feel  much  better  now  and  I  'd  like  to  talk  to  you.' 

The  doctor  smiled  mysteriously. 

'  I  would  advise  you  to  keep  quiet,'  he  said  good- 
naturedly. 

'LI  'm  much  better,  I  tell  you.'  Pietro  looked  at 
him  severely.  '  And  I  want  to  talk.  The  silence  is 
suffocating  me.'  He  took  a  deep  breath. 

Del  Ponte  shrugged  his  shoulders.  If  he  diagnosed 
correctly,  it  did  not  much  matter  whether  his  old 
fellow-student,  whom  he  had  met  here  so  unexpectedly, 
talked  or  was  silent. 

'  Now  I  know,'  said  Pietro  in  a  resonant  voice. 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  hi  surprise.  Certainty 
and  triumph  rang  in  the  clear  tones  of  his  voice.  The 
unshakeable  conviction  of  a  man  rang  in  them,  and 
something  more,  something  that  the  hearer  did  not 
quite  understand.  Pietro  continued  : 

'  It  is  all  lies  ...  all  ...  all.  I  joined  as  a 
volunteer,  not  to  fight,  but  to  find  out  the  truth.  I 
found  lies.  Everything  to  do  with  war  is  inextricably 
mixed  up  with  lies.  The  two  things  belong  together  ; 
they  are  one  like  body  and  soul.  The  body  is  war, 
and  the  soul  is  lying.  Body  and  soul,  war  and  lies — 
there  's  the  definition  for  you.' 

Pietro  looked  with  clear  eyes  at  Del  Ponte,  who 
was  leaning  against  the  rail  at  the  foot  of  the  bed 
and  watching  him  with  interest. 

'  This  war  differs  scarcely  perceptibly  from  all  the 
others/  the  wounded  man  went  on.  '  The  inner  core 
of  every  war  is  unalterable.  This  one  was  begun  for 

y  2 


324  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

the  same  reason  that  every  war  is  undertaken  now- 
a-days.  The  cause  is  not  an  ideal  one.  As  if  anyone 
ever  fought  in  the  twentieth  century  except  about 
trade.  Do  you  think  we  shall  pull  through  ?  What 
have  we  gained  so  far  ?  At  home  the  workshops 
and  factories  are  shut  up,  savings  are  vanishing,  and 
credit  is  decreasing.  Our  largest  market,  our  export 
to  the  East,  is  blocked.  As  our  goods  cannot  find 
purchasers  it  does  not  pay  us  to  manufacture  them. 
But  in  all  the  newspapers  to  be  had  out  here,  the  talk 
is  of  nothing  but  the  enthusiasm  of  the  people  for 
the  war. 

'  Del  Ponte,  do  you  believe  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
unemployed  ?  Their  women  and  children,  their  old 
parents,  are  starving  and  freezing.  Why  ?  Because 
there  is  war.  And  the  war-fever  mounts  higher  and 
higher.  What  do  you  call  that  ?  Lies  .  .  .  nothing 
but  lies,  I  say. 

'  We  lie.  We  have  succeeded  in  giving  foreign 
countries  the  false  impression  that  the  war  is  popular. 
We  have  blundered,  and  we  deny  it.  Every  war  is 
begun  on  a  foundation  of  lies.  If  the  truth  were  told 
there  would  be  no  war.  War  consists  of  lies  in  its 
origin,  its  conduct,  and  in  its  results.  People  measure 
its  success,  not  by  benefits  directly  gained  for  one- 
self, but  by  the  amount  of  damage  done  to  the 
enemy. 

'  I  'm  not  boring  you,  am  I,  Del  Ponte  ?  You 
mustn't  refuse  to  listen  to  me.  I  will  talk.  ...  I 
must  talk. 

'  Look  what  is  going  on  in  the  world  at  this  moment. 
All  the  nations  are  thinking  of  nothing  but  arming 
themselves  with  hysterical  haste.  They  are  arming 


LIES  325 

for  the  war  which  seems  to  them  inevitable.  Mark 
that — inevitable  ! 

'  Believe  me,  I  see  things  clearly — I  know  !  This 
arming  is  the  cause  of  the  war.  If  the  nations  did 
not  arm  the  dreaded  war  would  never  come.  So  the 
assurances  that  they  are  only  arming  for  the  sake  of 
peace  are  lies.  What  is  the  meaning,  then,  of  this 
hysterical  craze  for  armaments  which  is  sweeping  like 
a  simoom  across  the  world  and  forcing  the  nations  to 
sacrifice  their  means  of  subsistence  for  the  most  un- 
fruitful of  all  causes  ?  Suspicion  and  fear.  My  neigh- 
bour— whose  railways  cross  my  borders,  whose  ships 
are  in  my  harbours,  with  whom  I  am  in  continuous 
commercial  intercourse — I  suspect  this  neighbour  of 
wishing  to  invade  me.  Why  should  he  ?  Why,  of 
course,  so  as  to  conquer  some  of  my  country  and 
wring  a  large  indemnity  out  of  me. 

'  Is  it  likely  that  my  neighbour  will  do  this  ? 

'  To  make  it  really  possible  I  must  of  course  take 
for  granted  that  he  is  not  a  man  of  honour.  A  decent, 
loyal  citizen  does  not  attack  and  rob  an  innocent 
neighbour.  An  honourable  nation  is  just  as  unlikely  to 
do  so.  ...  You  shake  your  head,  Del  Ponte,  and 
look  incredulous.  Of  course  you  are  thinking  of  self- 
interest,  envy,  and  all  the  countless  evil  passions 
which,  according  to  most  people,  substantially  rule  the 
world.  I  do  not  deny  that  they  have  their  influence. 
But  I  deny  that  evil  impulses  are  sufficient,  simply 
and  solely,  to  drive  a  nation  into  war. 

'  We  will  take  the  questions  in  their  order. 

'  Given  that  a  nation  calls,  with  her  thousands  of 
voices,  day  after  day  to  her  neighbour  over  the  border  : 
"  You  are  not  honourable,  you  are  planning  to  attack 


326  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

me  unawares  " — what  do  you  think  will  be  the  result  ? 
At  first  the  neighbour,  who  is  honest  at  bottom, 
shrugs  his  shoulders  and  pays  no  attention  to  the 
cry.  But  if  it  is  repeated  again  and  again  he  will  be 
forced  to  reflect.  He  will  tell  himself  that  something 
must  lie  behind  all  this  noise.  And  as  he  knows  that 
his  thoughts  are  honourable  and  his  intentions  pure,  he 
calls  back  :  "  Lies  !  "  By  this  time  the  first  shouter 
has  worked  himself  into  such  a  heat  that  he  hardly 
knows  what  he  is  saying ;  he  is  on  the  borders  of 
hysteria.  It  is  horrible,  Del  Ponte,  when  nations 
become  hysterical.  They  are  guilty  then  of  actions 
which  they  must  bitterly  regret — actions  which  cannot 
be  forgiven.  Well,  so  now  the  quarrel  is  in  full  swing. 
The  newspapers  occupy  themselves  with  the  great 
question — which  never  would  have  been  a  question  at 
all  if  they  had  not  made  it  one ;  pamphlets  are  circu- 
lated ;  tempers  begin  to  rise  ;  passions  flare  up.  And 
it  all  resolves  itself  into  one  word — armament.  The 
accusation  resounds  :  "  The  whole  of  this  neighbouring 
country,  with  whom  I  am  in  perpetual  intercourse,  is 
dishonourable,  from  the  ruler  of  the  country  to  the 
beggar  at  the  church  door.  Their  sole  thought  is  to 
invade  me !  "  The  neighbour,  who  would  have 
infinitely  preferred  the  matter  to  have  remained  a 
fairly  harmless  newspaper  scare,  clenches  his  fists.  He 
had  never,  in  his  wildest  moments,  thought  of  such  a 
war,  but  now  that  he  hears  it  discussed  unceasingly, 
it  impresses  itself  on  his  mind.  "  Why  not  ?  "  he 
asks  himself — given  that  he  is  the  stronger  of  the  two. 
And  then  he  adds  :  "I  have  behaved  honourably 
and  decently  and  have  never  given  cause  for  this 
suspicion.  Whether  I  attack  this  noisy  fellow  or  not, 


LIES  327 

my  position  will  remain  the  same,  or  it  will  grow 
worse  :  for  if  I  don't  tackle  him  it  will  be  attributed  to 
weakness,  perhaps  to  cowardice." 

'  Let  us  picture  to  ourselves  a  large  and  a  small 
state  in  a  similar  situation.  Suddenly  in  the  small 
state  the  cry  is  raised  for  a  lengthening  of  the  period  of 
military  service,  or  an  increase  of  the  navy,  or  some- 
thing of  that  kind.  Zealous  advocates  of  armament 
have  their  way,  and  the  nation  shelves  one  or  two 
necessary  reforms ;  and  with  increasing  mistrust  the 
neighbour  watches  this  feverish  activity.  He  asks 
himself  what  may  be  behind  it  all.  There  is  no  reply ; 
the  whole  thing  is  an  endless  whirl  of  false  hopes  and 
treacherous  wishes.  The  neighbour  against  whom  this 
arming  is  directed  parries  the  blow  by  advancing  an 
army  corps  to  the  border,  or  by  building  double  the 
number  of  ironclads.  It  may  be  that  he  prefers  to 
quell  with  the  sword  the  turmoil  that  some  one  else 
has  raised.' 

Doctor  Del  Ponte  nodded  silently.  The  conviction 
with  which  Pietro  spoke  made  an  impression  on  him. 

'  If  I  remember  aright,  you  once  wrote  a  treatise 
on  the  functions  of  the  brain.  What  do  you  think  of 
those  thought-waves  which,  at  shorter  or  longer 
intervals,  obsess  the  world  ?  What  is  the  psycholo- 
gical explanation  of  these  phenomena  which  occur  so 
frequently  nowadays  ?  ' 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'  My  treatise  was  done  to  death.  Let  it  rest  in 
peace.  Now  I  am  a  military  doctor  and  have  no 
further  ambition.  As  far  as  hypnotic  suggestion 
on  a  large  scale  is  concerned,  the  question  is  still 
unanswered.  I  will  just  tell  you  one  thing,  Fontanara. 


328  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

Your  point  of  view  is  better  justified  than  that  of 
the  military  expert.  That  means  very  little  if  you 
cannot  convince  a  sufficient  number  of  people  that 
your  opinion  has  the  greater  value — if,  in  other  words, 
you  don't  make  it  accessible  to  all.' 

'  Yes  :  but  my  opinions  are  neither  new  nor  secret. 
Everybody  knows  them.     I  only  ask  that  everyone 
should  think  honestly  and  without  prejudice.' 
'  Then  you  ask  too  much.' 

'  Do  you  think  so  ?  '  Pietro  said  ;  and  a  real  fear 
rang  in  his  voice. 

'  Quietly,  Fontanara,  quietly  ! '  warned  the  doctor. 
'  I  know  what  you  mean.  Lies  hinder  the  people 
from  seeing.  They  have  been  brought  to  such  a  pass 
that  they  most  zealously  foster  that  which  is  most 
harmful  to  them.  It  is  touching  to  see  all  the  sacrifices 
to  which  nations  subject  themselves  in  order  to  main- 
tain war.  They  are  for  ever  arming  for  the  sake  of 
peace,  and  the  consequence  of  that  is  that,  sooner  or 
later,  they  are  face  to  face  with  war.' 

'  What  are  you  looking  for  under  your  pillow  ?  ' 
'  My  notebook.  I  said  just  now  that  the  essence 
of  war  was  lies. — Thanks,  Del  Ponte  ! — Here  in  this 
book  I  've  collected  a  few  proofs  of  my  statement. 
The  first  question  is,  How  is  it  that  war  is  permitted  to 
be  carried  on  ?  Simply  because  no  one,  not  even  those 
who  take  part  in  it,  know  what  war  is.  Don't  look  so 
surprised,  Del  Ponte  :  that  is  a  fact.  A  whole  set  of 
lies  has  been  woven  into  the  idea  of  war :  you  hear  talk 
about  courage,  pluck,  honour,  ...  all  the  richest 
words  and  most  sounding  phrases  in  the  language  are 
used.  And  the  people  believe  these  lies,  or  imagine 
they  do — which  is  the  same  thing.  But  the  strangest 


LIES  329 

thing  of  all  is  that  if  you  ask  a  soldier  his  opinion  of 
war  he  will  have  one  answer  for  the  cultured  man,  and 
a  totally  different  one  for  his  companion  in  arms. 
Look  at  Benedetti,  who  fell  on  the  same  day  that  I  was 
wounded.  He  said  :  "  What  is  war  ?  Vermin,  nothing 
but  vermin."  But  do  you  think  he  'd  have  said  that 
to  a  newspaper  correspondent  or  an  officer  or  any  other 
superior  ?  No.  Another  comrade,  Rapagnotti,  a 
reserved,  sullen  rascal,  replied  to  the  same  question  : 
"  Hunger."  And  he  ate  three  times  as  much  as  any 
of  us.  The  remarkable  part  of  it  was  that  he  had  been 
obliged  to  starve  all  his  life  and  was  used  to  it  until  he 
suddenly  developed  a  raging  appetite — as  a  soldier  in 
Africa.  And  now  these  two  malcontents  boast  to 
outsiders  far  and  near  about  the  war,  and  their  enthu- 
siasm for  it,  and  about  attacks  and  fights  and  the  lust 
of  battle  and  contempt  of  death.  They  have  learnt 
a  whole  lot  of  phrases  and  use  them  as  answers.  But 
they  don 't  know  they  're  lying.  And  at  the  end  of  the 
war,  when  they  are  free  men  again  and  have  no  un- 
pleasant consequences  to  fear,  they  will  talk  in  just 
the  same  strain.  That  is  a  proof  of  courage  and 
manliness  which  bolsters  up  their  respect  for  themselves 
and  their  country.  Believe  me,  Rapagnotti — that 
peasant  to  whose  nature  the  whole  business  is  so 
contrary  that  he  occasionally  goes  off  his  head  from 
sheer  distaste  of  it — will,  by  and  by,  lay  his  hand  on 
his  heart  and  declare  in  all  sincerity  that  the  war  was 
the  happiest  time  of  his  life. 

'  You  shrug  your  shoulders, — ignorant,  uncritical 
soldiers  you  think  .  .  .  You  can  take  my  word  for 
it,  the  officers  are  just  the  same.  After  peace  is 
declared,  when  their  wounds  are  healed  and  the  war  is 


330  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

only  an  episode  in  their  lives,  they  will  only  remember 
the  joy  of  using  physical  force,  the  excitement  of 
adventure,  the  seduction  of  danger,  the  intoxication  of 
victory.  All  the  rest  will  be  forgotten.  The  anxious 
waiting  through  the  long  nights,  the  nervousness,  the 
sickness,  and  the  disgusting  dirt  which  is  probably 
the  worst  part  of  it  all  to  some  of  them.  Men  are  very 
weak,  Del  Ponte  :  they  would  much  rather  say  what 
is  expected  of  them  than  the  truth. 

'  You  may  object  that  these  are  mere  details.  Yes ; 
but  they  make  up  a  whole,  and  they  reveal  the  lies. 
These  lies  are  unconscious,  but  they  are  none  the  less 
dangerous.  Then  there  are  the  conscious  ones. 
Every  man  in  the  army,  without  exception,  is  visited 
by  doubts  in  one  form  or  another.  If  not,  why  this 
everlastingly  reiterated  "  I  am  doing  my  duty  "  ? 
The  harping  on  this  can  only  be  accounted  for  by  an 
uneasy  conscience.  To  silence  this  they  take  refuge 
in  professions  of  virtue.  They  lie;  and  they  know 
they  are  lying.  Patriotism  demands  what  the  con- 
science forbids.  Del  Ponte,  in  my  first  fight  I  had  an 
hallucination.  I  heard  a  voice  saying  quite  distinctly  : 
"  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder  !  "  I  obeyed  and  lowered 
my  rifle.' 

'  The  voice  was  in  your  own  brain.  You  had 
thought  such  a  lot  about  it,  and,  when  finally  it  came 
to  action,  you  reacted.  That 's  quite  simple.' 

'  My  own  explanation,  Del  Ponte.  Everything  is 
quite  simple  and  natural  .  .  .  except  man  himself. 
Everyone  hears  this  voice  within  him.  Most  of  them 
have  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  it  for  so  long  that  they  have 
lost  their  hearing.  Sensible  of  them,  isn't  it  ?  And 
that 's  why  wars  still  exist  and  testify  to  falsehood, 


LIES  331 

lies,  and  deceit ;  to  cruelty  and  injustice :  in  a  word,  to 
all  that  we  have  been^taught  to  detest  and  condemn. 
Open  the  notebook,  Del  Ponte  ! — What 's  written 
there  ? ' 

'  Lies/  the'doctor  read  on  the  first  page. 

Pietro  nodded. 

*  They  are  just  a  few  short  impressions  that  I 
collected — no  detailed  facts.  Later  on,  I  will  work 
at  them  when  I  am  well  again.  Some  one  must  come 
forward  and  state  the  truth. — The  next  page,  Del 
Ponte  ! ' 

'  The  Prisoners/  said  the  doctor  in  a  subdued  voice. 

'  More  than  a  thousand  Arabs  were  brought  from 
their  own  country  and  thrown  into  stinking  barracks 
in  S.  Nicola  and  a  few  other  islands.  For  what 
reason  ?  They  defended  their  country  against  in- 
vaders— in  other  words,  they  did  their  duty.  Do  you 
not  see,  doing  your  duty  is  a  particularly  grave  offence 
in  the  eyes  of  your  opponent  ?  What  we  demand  from 
our  soldiers  is  looked  upon  as  an  offence  when  de- 
manded by  the  enemy  from  its  men,  Consideration 
for  the  opponent  belongs  to  the  simpler  lies. — Go  on  ! ' 

'  The  Clergy.' 

'  On  the  outbreak  of  war,  the  peace-lovers  in  various 
districts  tried  to  set  a  protest  in  motion.  The  clergy 
of  the  various  denominations  immediately  refused  to 
countenance  it.  Neither  with  regard  to  this  war  nor 
any  other  has  one  single  minister  uttered  a  word  that 
was  worth  the  hearing.  And,  surely,  from  the  altar 
and  the  pulpit,  peace,  humanity,  and  brotherly  love 
should  be  preached  !  But  if  the  clergy  cease  to  preach 
peace  and  good-will,  if  they  no  longer  feel  indignation 
at  shame  and  injustice,  what  is  there  left  for  them 


332  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

to  do  ?  Military  chaplain  ! — Have  you  ever  really 
thought  what  that  means  ?  "  Thou  shalt  do  no 
murder,"  says  the  commandment !  "  Thou  shalt 
commit  murder,"  says  the  chaplain. — Turn  over,  Del 
Ponte  ! ' 

'  Spies.' 

'  Ah  !  ...  In  times  of  peace,  a  man-of-war  of  a 
foreign  navy  enters  one  of  our  harbours.  The  officers 
are  received  with  open  arms  by  the  officers  of  our  fleet. 
Festivities  are  the  order  of  the  day ;  wine  flows  freely ; 
the  protestations  of  friendship  take  a  warmer  tone  and 
the  guests  become  filled  with  brotherly  love.  In  the 
middle  of  the  banquet,  some  one  notices  that  one  or 
more  of  the  guests  have  disappeared.  They  have  been 
examining  the  breech-action  of  a  new  cannon ;  with  the 
greatest  secrecy  they  have  been  sounding  the  entrance 
to  the  harbour :  in  one  word,  they  have  been  spying. 
Wine,  hospitality,  brotherly  love,  offered  them  a 
favourable  opportunity.  They  have  been  guilty  of 
theft,  of  treachery.  They  declare  that  it  was  love  of 
their  own  country  that  drove  them  to  it  ...  to  theft 
and  treachery.  Then,  to  be  false  and  sly  is  to  be 
patriotic.  One  who  really  respected  the  honour  of 
his  country  would  be  the  last  to  accept  stolen  property. 
But  what  happens  ?  War  has  besmirched  even  the 
love  of  one's  own  country. — The  next  page  ! ' 

With  a  troubled  look  at  Pietro,  Del  Ponte  continued. 

'  Politics/ 

'  Yes,  instead  of  trying  to  bring  about  peace,  the 
ministers  busy  themselves  in  augmenting  the  causes  of 
war.  And  when  war  comes,  they  cry  that  the  National 
Honour  will  be  tarnished  if  the  blunders  of  the  leaders 
be  not  rectified.  My  poor  people  !  They  are  aware  of 


LIES  333 

Europe's  malicious  laughter ;  they  see  the  universal 
shoulder-shrugging.  What  business  had  you  there  ? 
Yes — what  ?  And  the  nation  comes  together  as  one 
man.  We  have  erred,  we  have  been  betrayed  into 
shameful  deeds.  What  then  ?  We  have  paid  our 
portion  of  the  debt  heavily  enough.  We  are  involved 
in  a  great  and  wearisome  war.  Our  credit  is  falling ; 
our  charitable  institutions  are  filled  to  overflowing. 
Soon  Italy  will  be  a  very  cheap  country  ...  for 
tourists.  For  ourselves,  we  must  tighten  our  belts. 

'  The  book  contains  one  hundred  and  fifty  pages, 
Del  Ponte.  On  every  page  I  have  noted  down  a  lie 
...  I  found  thousands  of  lies  by  which  war  is 
surrounded. 

'  Del  Ponte,  I  am  weary  ...  a  strange  weakness 
.  .  .  Turn  to  the  last  page  !  Hurry !  I  must  .  .  .' 

The  doctor  did  as  he  bade  him. 

'  The  Programme,'  he  read  softly. 

An  illumhiating  smile  lit  up  Pietro's  face.  '  Yes,' 
he  said, '  it  is  all  quite  simple  and  natural.  Just  listen! 
No  matter  how  far  one  carries  out  the  process  of  defence 
it  can  never  give  absolute  security.  One  Power  may 
be  greater  than  another,  two  or  three  may  join  forces 
against  a  fourth.  A  neutrality  which  is  guaranteed 
against  every  breach  of  peace  may,  on  the  other  hand, 
give  a  certain  amount  of  security.  This  is  the  first 
law :  every  nation,  large  or  small,  has  the  inalienable 
right  to  the  integrity  of  its  territory.  Next,  disarma- 
ment begins  slowly — step  by  step — alike  for  all.  No 
impossibilities  are  asked  f or ;  as  a  first  step,  this  only. 
Not  one  soldier  more  ;  no  additional  armour-clads  .  .  . 
rest  after  the  turmoil,  rest  from  all  the  worry.  My 
poor  misguided  people !  Once  more,  I  see  the  glow 


334  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

of  health  on  their  cheeks ;  I  hear  their  laughter,  bright 
and  merry  .  .  .  and  all  the  others  ...  all  those  who 
bled  in  unjust  wars,  who  were  crushed  beneath  their 
heavy  burdens ;  all  who  suffered  in  the  fear  and  the 
unrest.  To  them,  also,  belongs  the  old,  ever  new 
message  :  "  Peace  on  earth,  and  good- will  towards 
men."  Man  is  not  like  a  tiger.  A  man  wants  to  be 
good  and  upright ;  he  seeks  to  go  his  way  without 
reproach.  But  these  unceasing  outcries  darken  his 
reason ;  render  him  evil,  distrustful,  and  bitter.  There 
are  two  different  ideas  of  the  world  directly  opposed 
to  each  other.  There  is  the  everlasting  battle  between 
day  and  night,  between  truth  and  falsehood.  At  the 
present  time  the  names  are  changed ;  for  now  peace  and 
war  struggle  against  each  other.  War  has  the  dark 
suspicion  that,  presently,  the  world  will  awake,  and, 
therefore,  he  is  straining  every  effort  to  gain  the  mastery 
over  all  men.  He  gathers  all  manner  of  lies  for  his 
defence,  presses  human  passions  into  his  service,  and 
besmirches  truth.  It  is  of  no  avail.  The  people 
will  awake  from  their  blindness.  Though  darkness 
still  lies  heavy  on  the  land,  the  hour  of  daybreak 
approaches. 

'  When  one  pictures  these  .  .  .  peace,  happiness 
...  joy  ...  Del  Ponte,  help  me  !  I  must  make  the 
glad  tidings  known.  Do  not  shake  your  head  thus, 
you  physician  of  the  body !  There  are  ways  and  means 
and  hopes.  The  Press  can  do  more  than  the  cannon, 
and  the  will  is  stronger  than  the  deed,  the  pen  sharper 
than  the  sword.  Oh,  you  of  little  faith,  the  time  is 
at  hand  when  truth  will  conquer  falsehood.' 

Outside,  footsteps  were  to  be  heard ;  a  sword  clinked 
lightly  on  the  pavement ;  the  door  was  opened. 


LIES  335 

The  colonel  of  the  regiment,  an  adjutant,  Captain 
Vitale,  Lieutenant  Carello — the  latter  in  hospital  garb 
and  with  his  arm  in  a  sling — entered.  They  were 
followed  by  some  of  the  sergeants ;  and,  in  the  back- 
ground, Zirilli,  Rapagnotti,  and  a  few  other  privates 
were  visible. 

Captain  Vitale  marched  up  to  the  bed,  brought  his 
heels  together  and  saluted. 

'  Fontanara  .  .  .  marksman,  I  congratulate  you  ! 
Do  you  see  .  .  .  Er  !  .  .  .  The  medal  for  valour  ! ' 
He  laid  a  glittering  object  down  on  the  woollen  bed- 
cover. 

Pietro  opened  his  eyes  wide,  and  he  gazed  uncom- 
prehendingly  at  his  commanding  officer. 

The  adjutant  opened  a  paper  and  began  to  read. 

Pietro  made  an  effort  to  understand  him.  He  heard 
his  name  spoken  together  with  Zirilli's,  Rapagnotti's, 
and  a  few  others. 

Captain  Vitale  threw  out  his  chest,  twirled  his 
moustache  and  cried : 

'  Seven  medals  for  valour  have  been  awarded  at 
the  same  time  to  the  company, — seven  .  .  .  .' 

At  last  Pietro  understood.  A  burning,  choking 
wave  passed  over  him.  He  opened  his  lips  but  only 
a  few  unintelligible  sounds  escaped  them. 

Doctor  Del  Ponte  hurried  to  his  assistance. 

Blood  came  from  the  left  corner  of  Pietro's  mouth 
and  trickled  in  a  thin  stream  down  his  neck.  He  did 
not  notice  it,  he  only  stared  at  the  medal  lying  there 
in  the  dirt  and  blood,  for,  yes  he  saw  it  now,  his  quilt 
was  horribly  dirty.  But  he  had  no  time  to  think  of 
trifles,  his  mission  must  be  begun  now.  His  eyes 
glowed,  his  chest  heaved  with  a  mighty  breath.  The 


336  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

hour    had  come,  the  light  would  shine,   the  truth 
triumph. 

'  Lies  .  .  .  lies  .  .  .  lies  .  .  .'  came  from  his  lips 
in  jerks.  Suddenly  he  felt  as  though  something  tore 
at  his  chest  and  stilled  the  beating  of  his  heart.  Fear 
clouded  his  sight,  he  understood  what  it  was  that  was 
approaching  him  .  .  .  nay,  had  touched  him.  The 
tidings  that  he  was  to  bring  the  world  would  never 
pass  his  lips.  Why  ?  Was  it  truth  or  falsehood  that 
had  killed  him  ?  A  fellow  countryman's  bullet  .  .  . 
the  official  report  called  it  an  enemy's  bullet  .  .  . 
help  .  .  .  truth  !  Oh  !  give  me  time  .  .  .  !  Thoughts 
raced  through  his  brain  at  a  lightning  speed  .  .  .  life 
.  .  .  death  .  .  .  truth  .  .  .  falsehood.  ...  He  drew 
himself  up  for  a  last  effort,  before  his  eyes  would 
close  for  ever,  and  cried  accusingly  : 

'  War  ! ' 

There  was  total  silence  in  the  death-room.  The 
colonel  made  the  sign  of  the  cross :  the  short,  passionate 
death  struggle  had  impressed  him. 

Captain  Vitale  murmured  a  few  sentences  of  a 
prayer.  Then  he  drew  himself  up  and  exclaimed  : 

'  Brave  Fontanara,  I  thank  you  ! '  The  captain 
turned  from  the  dead  to  the  living.  '  Comrades,  you 
heard,  his  last  word  was  "  War."  It  was  an  entreaty. 
He  asked  that  we  should  revenge  him.  Comrades,  in 
my  own  and  in 'your  names,  I  vow  vengeance.  Fon- 
tanara, our  marksman,  the  enemy  shall  pay  dearly  for 
the  ball  that  laid  you  low  ! '  Captain  Vitale  looked 
round  with  an  air  of  simple  conviction.  His  huge 
moustache  was  trembling  and  a  mist  of  tears  clouded 
his  eyes.  The  soldiers  standing  in  the  doorway 
drew  themselves  up  ;  they  met  their  captain's  glance 


LIES  337 

openly  and  earnestly,  they  had  already  sworn  their 
oath. 

The  colonel  bowed  his  head  to  the  body,  and  the 
officers  followed  his  example,  passing  in  single  file  to 
the  door.  Captain  Vitale  saw  the  notebook  in  Doctor 
Del  Ponte's  hand  and  whispered  : 

'  I  suppose  that  will  be  ...  er  ...  published  ?  ' 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  answered 
despondently : 

'  No,  what  's  the  good  ? ' 


VII 
A  VISION  OF  THE  FUTURE 

THE  start  had  originally  been  intended  for  midday. 
But  as  the  commander-in-chief  had  expressed  the 
wish  to  be  present,  the  whole  affair  had  been  postponed 
for  a  few  hours.  The  airman  stood  by  his  machine, 
waiting ;  a  few  sappers  sat  together  in  a  group  chatting. 
There  was  nothing  for  them  to  do  after  they  had  put 
the  bombs  in  position.  In  front  of  the  shed,  the  doors 
of  which  were  thrown  back,  stood  about  twenty 
officers  who  had  come  together  to  witness  their  com- 
rade's bold  reconnaissance. 

The  airman  yawned  slightly  behind  his  hand,  but 
the  general's  wish  delayed  the  flight.  He  frowned  and 
went  over  to  watch  one  or  two  companies  who  were  at 
drill  a  short  distance  away. 

A  man  on  horseback  was  approaching  from  the 
city. 

The  officers  became  mildly  excited.  Was  something 
going  to  happen  at  last  ?  Yes,  the  general  must  have 
finished  his  lunch. 

The  airman  stretched  himself  and  filled  his  lungs. 
Everything  seemed  to  promise  a  successful  flight.  The 

338 


A  VISION  OF  THE  FUTURE  339 

sky  was  certainly  overcast,  but  there  was  no  reason  to 
expect  anything  but  calm  weather.  He  could  hardly 
have  chosen  a  more  suitable  day. 

'  At  last,'  he  murmured.  A  group  of  horsemen 
were  coming  from  the  city. 

The  soldiers  stopped  their  drill.  It  would  have 
been  unfair  to  deprive  them  of  the  sight  of  the  flying. 
The  officers  drew  nearer. 

'  All  ready,  captain  ?  '  asked  a  lieutenant  good- 
naturedly. 

'  All  ready/  nodded  the  airman.  He  cast  a  final 
glance  over  the  machine.  No,  nothing  was  missing. 
He  signed  to  the  sappers,  who  jumped  up  and  took 
the  places  already  assigned  to  them. 

The  general  rode  up  with  his  escort  and  halted 
a  little  to  one  side  of  the  hangar.  He  greeted  the 
airman  condescendingly,  and  saluted  the  group  of 
officers  with  his  gloved  hand,  and  his  clever  eyes 
rested  on  the  machine.  He  had  always  taken  a  lively 
interest  in  this  new  aid  to  military  operations,  and  he 
never  missed  an  opportunity  of  seeing  a  flight.  He 
sprang  lightly  from  his  saddle  and  went  up  to  the 
flying-machine.  The  long  row  of  orders  and  medals 
on  his  breast  glittered  in  the  pale  light,  the  gold  flashed 
on  his  cap,  his  sword  struck  rhythmically  against  the 
patent  leather  of  his  left  boot. 

'  Aha  .  .  .  aha  .  .  .  very  good,'  he  said  and 
smiled,  showing  two  even  rows  of  white  teeth  under 
his  carefully  waxed  and  brushed-up  moustache.  He 
nodded  cheerfully  to  the  airman.  '  Now  .  .  .  shall 
we,  captain  ?  ' 

'  Whenever  you  please,  general.' 

'  Good.     And  the    bombs,    eh  ?  '     The    general 

Z  2 


340  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

indicated  the  seven  shells,  placed  where  the  airman 
could  easily  reach  them. 

'  Yes.' 

'  Good.  And  you  think  you  can  be  back  again 
within  half  an  hour  ?  ' 

'  If  nothing  unforeseen  occurs  .  .  .' 

'  Good.     Here  on  the  drill  ground  ?  ' 

'  If  everything  happens  according  to  my  calcu- 
lations .  .  .  yes.' 

'  I  will  await  your  return.  May  Our  Lady  and  all 
the  Saints  protect  you,  captain  ! ' 

The  general  stepped  back  a  pace.  At  a  sign  the 
sappers  began  to  push  the  machine  forward.  The 
airman  took  his  seat  and  started  the  motor  experi- 
mentally. It  was  working  perfectly. 

The  great  flying-machine  wobbled  about.  The 
ground  was  not  its  element.  With  mighty,  outspread 
wings,  which  demanded  air  and  space  under  them,  the 
machine  moved  heavily  forward  for  a  few  yards. 
The  airman,  from  his  seat,  smiled  at  the  officers. 

His  comrades  saluted  their  daring  friend  with  their 
hands  to  their  caps. 

The  airman  bowed  slightly  to  the  general,  and 
then  devoted  his  whole  attention  to  the  machine. 
The  motor  began  to  whirr.  The  flying-machine  made 
a  leap  forward. 

The  sun  broke  through  a  rift  in  the  clouds.  The 
aeroplane  had  left  the  ground  and  was  rising  swiftly 
in  a  slanting  direction.  The  wings  shone,  the  metal 
of  the  frame  glittered.  The  machine  rose  higher  and 
higher,  glided  into  the  sunshine  and  again  into  the 
shadow ;  against  the  light  background  it  looked  like 
some  great  prehistoric  insect. 


A  VISION  OF  THE  FUTURE  341 

Eager  and  interested,  officers  and  men  looked  with 
upturned  faces  and  blinking  eyes  after  the  vanishing 
aeroplane. 

'  Good/  exclaimed  the  general,  '  very  good  !  '  His 
eyes  shone,  his  orders  and  medals  glittered.  '  Sublime, 
gentlemen,  simply  sublime !  '  The  flying  machine 
became  smaller  and  glided  into  the  infinite.  The  old 
general  lowered  his  head  and  sank  into  deep  thought. 
That  which  he  had  just  seen  was  not  only  wonderful, 
it  was  rich  with  promise.  What  vistas  opened  before 
him  ...  a  glance  into  a  future,  so  dazzling,  that  .  .  . 
that  ...  '  Very  good/  he  said  aloud,  '  very  good  ! ' 

A  staff-officer  was  standing  beside  him  and  had 
said  something  of  which  he  had  not  heard  a  word.  An 
orderly  came  running  up. 

The  general  signed  to  the  staff-officer  to  withdraw. 

'  The  problem  is  solved/  he  thought.  '  We  only 
need  to  take  advantage  of  every  improvement  in  the 
technique.  What  a  pity  I  am  too  old  to  fly  .  .  / 

The  orderly  saluted  and  went  away,  after  having 
delivered  his  message,  of  which  the  general  had  not 
heard  a  syllable. 

'  What  was  that  ?  '  The  old  gentleman  turned  to 
the  major  standing  beside  him.  '  What  was  that  news- 
paper with  the  article  about  the  military  aviation  of 
to-day  ?  ' 

'  I  have  got  it  with  me/ 

'  Very  good.  I  will  sit  down  here  a  little,  whilst 
we  are  waiting.  See  that  I  am  not  disturbed/  He 
took  the  journal  from  the  major's  hand  and  threw  a 
searching  glance  towards  the  south.  With  what 
extraordinary  rapidity  these  flying-machines  were 
developing.  New  inventions  followed  one  after 


342  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

another,  and  at  this  moment  the  most  epoch-making 
ones  were  those  for  military  purposes.  '  Very  good  !  ' 
The  general  sat  down  on  the  cloak  which  his  orderly 
had  spread  for  him  and  began  to  turn  over  the  pages 
of  the  newspaper  handed  to  him  by  the  major. 

The  airman  had  reached  a  height  of  from  six  to  eight 
hundred  yards.  Gazing  steadily  ahead  he  hastened 
on.  The  wind  created  by  his  speed  was  cool  in  his 
face.  But  he  did  not  notice  it.  A  hard  smile  played 
round  his  firmly  closed  lips.  He  was  thinking  of  his 
two-fold  task.  The  first  thing  to  do  was  to  find  out 
the  disposition  of  the  enemy's  troops,  and  after  that 
to  harry  and  damage  them  as  much  as  possible.  He 
fancied  he  could  still  hear  the  voices  of  his  brother 
officers,  and  his  determination  increased.  He  clenched 
his  teeth  and  his  expression  grew  hard.  He  was 
determined  to  carry  out  his  mission.  He  was  striving 
not  only  for  the  respect  of  his  comrades  and  the  praise 
of  his  superior  officers,  he  was  flying  through  the  air  so 
as  to  testify  to  the  unquestionable  superiority  of  the 
white  races.  The  proofs  were  there,  in  the  shape  of 
seven  powerful  bombs.  When  he  flung  those  down 
from  the  sky  the  proof  would  be  overwhelming,  then 
all  contradiction  would  be  silenced. 

Behind  him  the  propellers  droned  harshly  and 
unceasingly.  The  rigid  sand  waves  beneath  him  looked 
strangely  confused.  Here  and  there  a  village  glimmered 
white  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  palms.  He  had  not 
yet  passed  the  advanced  lines  of  his  own  countrymen. 
Oh,  down  there  the  soldiers  were  running  together 
from  all  directions.  What  was  the  matter  ?  They 
had  perceived  him,  they  were  shouting  '  Hurrah !  ' 
Triumphant  and  stimulating  the  cry  rose  from  below. 


A  VISION  OF  THE  FUTURE  343 

He  raised  one  hand  from  the  steering-wheel  and  waved. 
He  would  have  liked  to  descend  a  little,  to  have  flown 
so  near  that  they  could  have  heard  his  answer.  But 
he  had  no  time,  his  goal  was  too  far  off.  Quicker  and 
quicker  the  machine  flew  through  the  ether.  Look, 
there  was  the  desert  .  .  .  the  bare  ground  beneath  him, 
the  bare  space  above  him,  and  he,  the  solitary  man, 
floating  between  the  two  !  A  feeling  of  mighty  power 
came  over  him. 

'  We  men,'  he  thought,  '  we  masters  of  air  and 
earth  .  .  .'  The  airman's  mission  was  a  great  and 
splendid  one.  When  thousands  of  others  like  him 
traversed  space  at  dizzy  heights  and  with  absolute 
safety,  and  descended  exactly  where  they  wanted  to, 
then  indissoluble  bonds  would  be  forged  between  the 
nations.  The  aeronauts  were  the  true  pioneers  of 
progress,  heralds  who  announced  the  new  .  .  .  no,  the 
old  gospel :  '  no  more  boundaries,  no  more  walls 
between  peoples.' 

A  sound,  like  a  sharp  crack,  reached  his  ear.  He 
looked  down  and  smiled  contemptuously.  A  dozen 
Arabs  on  horseback  were  racing  madly  in  the  same 
direction  as  himself.  An  expression  of  cruelty  dis- 
torted the  airman's  youthful  features.  Those  fellows 
down  there  .  .  .  aha !  .  .  .  they  were  actually  amusing 
themselves  by  shooting  at  him.  His  hand  left  the 
steering-wheel  and  moved  towards  the  bracket  on 
which  a  bomb  was  fastened.  He  owed  them  a  visiting- 
card,  those  bare-legged,  shouting  rascals  down  there. 
It  would  have  amused  him  to  watch  the  effects  of  the 
explosion,  but  .  .  .  well  .  .  . 

Again  sand,  nothing  but  sand.  What  was  it  he 
had  been  tlu'nking  about  ?  Oh  yes,  the  speech  at  the 


344  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

banquet  given  to  the  airmen  who  were  setting  out  for 
the  war.  How  did  it  go  ?  Yes.  '  The  last  im- 
portant step  has  been  taken,  now  there  need  be  no 
obstacles,  no  delays.  The  elements  have  become  the 
servants  of  mankind.  Certainly,  it  happened  now 
and  then  that  they  acted  treacherously,  but  that  they 
could  be  made  to  obey  there  was  no  doubt  whatever. 
All  that  now  remained  was  a  mechanical  problem,  over 
the  solution  of  which  thousands  of  brains  had  been 
occupied  for  a  considerable  tune.  Mankind,  always 
seeking  a  new  problem  to  master,  is  hastening  triumph- 
antly to  its  completion.  Will  is  the  creative  power 
which  constructs  out  of  nothingness.  It  was  thanks 
to  their  extraordinary  will-power  that  mankind  was 
becoming  more  and  more  godlike.  To-day  we  hail 
as  an  accomplished  fact  that  which,  a  few  years  ago, 
was  nothing  but  a  dream.'  An  excellent  and  highly 
characteristic  speech. 

Look  .  .  .  there  were  the  Turkish  lines.  Tr  nches 
were  being  dug  and  .  .  .  Why  were  all  those  thousands 
of  soldiers  formed  in  a  square  ?  Nobody  down  there 
seemed  to  have  noticed  the  flying-machine  as  yet ;  it 
was  a  favourable  moment  for  making  observations. 
Why  were  all  the  soldiers  standing  with  their  rifles 
at  their  sides  ?  And  .  .  .  What  ?  Arab  mollahs  .  .  . 
they  were  burying  those  killed  in  the  last  fight.  He 
could  not  have  hoped  for  a  better  opportunity. 

Two  bombs  were  hastily  detached  and  dropped. 

'  Ah  .  .  . ! ' 

A  faint  detonation  sounded  from  below,  and  then 
another  !  Then  followed  wailings,  and  angry  shouts  . . . 
CDnmsion. 

'  Hope  you  '11  enjoy  it  !  '  murmured  the  airman,  and 


A  VISION  OF  THE  FUTURE  345 

smiled.  The  pioneers  of  civilisation  were  showing 
what  they  were  worth.  Just  look,  they  were  shooting 
at  him.  So  two  bombs  were  not  enough.  Very  well, 
let  them  have  another  ! 

The  flying-machine  rocked  as  though  buffeted  by  the 
wind.  The  aviator  saw  the  flaw  at  once ;  intuition  told 
him  the  cause  of  it.  With  a  quick  movement  every- 
thing was  put  right  again.  He  smiled  confidently. 
The  instant  it  occurred,  the  nervous  sensitiveness,  so 
indispensable  to  an  airman,  had  told  him  that  some- 
thing had  happened.  A  second  later  the  aeroplane 
had  resumed  its  even  flight. 

What  had  occupied  his  thoughts  just  now  ?  The 
dream  which  had  become  reality  .  .  .  That  speech 
was  really  first-rate — did  it  not  contain  everything  that 
was  to  be  said  on  the  subject  ?  The  vision  of  the 
future  .  .  .  the  magnificent  possibilities.  .  .  .  How 
easy  it  had  been  for  the  speaker  to  silence  the  incredu- 
lous !  Everything  that  man  had  ever  produced  had 
been  set  down  as  Utopian  when  it  first  appeared.  Old 
men  and  wiseacres  had  always  shaken  their  heads ; 
dreary,  unimaginative  people  had  always  shrugged 
their  shoulders.  And  now  everything  that  they  had 
denied,  everything  that  they  had  suspected,  was 
respected  and  made  use  of  continuously ;  all  that 
had  seemed  to  them  useless  was  now  indispens- 
able. The  impossible  had  proved  simple  and  easy  to 
accomplish. 

The  flying-machine  glided  on.  No,  there  was  nothing 
down  here  to  be  seen.  He  was  behind  the  Turkish 
lines  now.  So  far  so  good ;  he  turned.  But  just  a  little 
way  towards  the  east  first  of  all. 

'  The  restrictions  of  time   and  space  have  been 


346  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

removed,'  he  thought,  and  was  once  more  overwhelmed 
in  the  torrent  of  words  which  had  roused  him  to  such 
enthusiasm  when  he  had  listened  to  them,  and  which 
would  always  remain  in  his  memory  :  '  The  human 
intellect  had  made  subject  to  it  earth,  fire,  water,  and 
air.  All  these  were  being  employed  in  the  service  of 
mankind.' 

'  What 's  that  down  there  ?  Oh,  the  red  crescent  on 
a  white  ground !  So  they  had  actually  had  the  cheek 
to  set  up  a  field  hospital  so  near  the  front !  Did  the 
enemy  imagine  that  there  was  no  means  of  punishing 
them  for  this  audacity  ?  Why,  they  had  actually 
stretched  a  great  white  sheet  right  over  the  roof  of  the 
hospital !  Perhaps  another  aviator  had  already  flown 
over  here.  No  ;  he  could  not  remember  having  heard 
of  such  a  thing  .  .  .  there  !  so  much  lor  the  superiority 
of  civilisation  .  .  .  one  .  .  .  two  bombs  .  .  .  fools  ! 
The  intoxication  of  flying  and  the  sense  of  power  aroused 
the  desire  for  further  triumphs.  He  saw  the  men 
down  below  running  about  in  confusion ;  in  the  distance 
he  could  hear  the  shrieking  and  the  noise.  The 
aviator  smiled.  He  was  proud  of  his  success. 

Look  !  they  were  honouring  him  with  gun-shots  and 
curses.  Fools  !  Did  they  not  realise  their  inferioiity  ? 
Had  they  not  deserved  their  fate  ? 

The  propellers  droned  unceasingly ;  the  machine 
throbbed  softly.  Down  below  there  was  nothing  to 
be  seen  but  sand.  The  furthest  outposts  of  the  enemy 
lay  far  behind  the  airman,  and  ...  no;  a  patrol 
party  was  creeping  through  a  hollow  between  two  hills. 
So  they  actually  dared  to  penetrate  so  near  to  his 
countrymen's  lines !  That  cried  out  for  retribution. 
The  prospect  of  hitting  this  handful  of  men  with  a 


A  VISION  OF  THE  FUTURE  347 

bomb  was  very  slight,  but  .  .  .  the  last  bomb  was 
taken  from  its  bracket  and  fell  through  the  air.  What 's 
the  matter  now  .  .  .  what  ?  The  soldiers  down  below 
had  caught  sight  of  him,  they  were  putting  their  hats 
on  their  bayonets  and  waving  .  .  .  shouting  hurrah  .  .  . 
oh,  they  were  his  countrymen ! 

The  flying-machine  hurried  onwards  with  greater 
speed  than  heretofore.  The  airman  felt  that  his 
cheeks  were  burning  and  his  heart  beating.  A  strange 
mixture  of  terror  and  curiosity  forced  him  to  turn 
round  and  look  down  at  the  patrol  party,  which  was 
plodding  on  its  way  slowly  through  the  sand.  There 
had  been  no  detonation.  The  bomb  had  sunk  into 
the  loose  sand  and  lay  there  half  buried  .  .  .  until 
another  occasion  or  for  always — who  could  say  ? 

There,  there  were  the  Italian  lines.  Shouts  of 
hurrah,  wavings,  rejoicings.  .  .  .  The  airman  thought 
of  what  he  had  thrown  down  just  before.  If  the  bomb 
had  exploded  and  the  men  had  been  injured  ! 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  group  of  palms  the  camp 
from  which  he  had  started  came  in  sight.  The  flying- 
machine  began  to  descend  ...  a  little  to  the  left  .  .  . 
a  little  more. 

The  landing  was  accomplished  without  difficulty. 
Like  a  creature  gifted  with  intelligence  the  machine 
obeyed  the  will  at  the  steering-wheel,  a  slight  vibration 
still  shaking  every  part  of  it. 

The  sappers  ran  up.  The  officers,  whose  numbers 
had  doubled  during  his  absence,  drew  nearer.  The 
general  stood  up,  folded  his  newspaper  and  handed 
it  to  the  major  who  had  hurried  to  the  spot.  From 
afar  off  the  commander-in-chief  had  sighted  the 
returning  flying-machine  and  had  followed  it  with 


348  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

his  eyes.  A  horse  was  frightened  and  shied,  but 
soon  became  calm  again. 

'  Welcome  to  the  ground,  captain  ! '  The  general 
shook  the  airman  by  the  hand.  He  was  proud  and 
delighted  at  this  feat  performed  by  an  officer  in  his 
corps.  '  Very  good  !  What  have  you  to  report  ?  ' 

In  sentences  of  military  abruptness  the  airman 
gave  an  account  of  his  reconnoitring.  The  enemy's 
lines  were  almost  parallel  to  their  own,  about  like 
this.  .  .  .  The  airman  drew  a  sketch  in  the  sand.  A 
few  strong  detachments  .  .  .  Arabs,  cavalry  therefore 
.  .  .  had  pushed  forward  towards  the  centre,  smaller 
patrol  parties  were  scattered  over  the  district.  He  had 
dropped  his  bombs,  but  owing  to  the  speed  of  his 
flight  he  had  only  been  able  to  watch  their  effect  at  one 
spot.  That  had  been  near  a  field  hospital  .  .  .  the 
enemy  had  stretched  a  white  sheet  with  the  red 
crescent  on  it  over  the  roof  .  .  .  but  he  had  not  been 
taken  in  by  this  precaution. 

'  Very  good,'  nodded  the  general. 

The  flattered  airman  smiled.  Shortly  before  that 
he  had  passed  a  large  number  of  troops  in  square 
formation,  they  were  evidently  holding  a  military 
funeral.  Judging  from  what  he  had  seen  the  enemy 
had  suffered  tremendous  losses  in  the  last  fight,  and 
probably  an  officer  of  superior  rank  had  been  killed. 
Otherwise,  why  were  they  losing  time  by  gathering 
together  the  troops  in  this  way  ? 

'  Make  a  note  of  that !  '  The  general  signed  to  the 
major  at  his  side.  He  had  already  produced  his  note- 
book and  was  writing  in  it.  '  Very  good  !  Telegraph  ! 

The  airman  bowed  slightly.  In  his  opinion  it 
would  be  well  to  reconnoitre  again  as  soon  as  possible. 


A  VISION  OF  THE  FUTURE  349 

The  enemy  might  change  his  plans.    There  was  nothing 
further  to  report. 

'  Thank  you,  captain  !  '  The  general  shook  him 
warmly  by  the  hand  once  more  and  stood  for  a  few 
minutes  sunk  in  thought.  '  Gentlemen/  he  began 
suddenly,  turning  to  the  officers,  '  it  is  incredible  how 
the  technique  of  war  has  changed.  Telephones,  tele- 
graphs, wireless  communications,  war  makes  use  of 
all  these.  It  presses  every  new  invention  into  its 
service.  Really  most  impressive.  I  have  just  been 
reading  the  latest  aviation  news  from  Europe.  Our 
ally  Germany  and  our  blood-relation  France  possess 
at  this  moment  the  largest  fleets  of  aeroplanes  in  the 
world.  The  distance  between  Metz  and  Paris  can  be 
covered  in  a  few  hours.  The  three  hundred  aeroplanes 
which  Germany  possesses  at  this  moment,  all  con- 
structed and  bought  in  France,  could  throw  down  ten 
thousand  kilos  of  dynamite  on  to  the  metropolis  of  the 
world  in  less  than  half  an  hour.  This  is  a  positively 
gigantic  thought  !  In  the  middle  of  the  night  these 
three  hundred  flying-machines  cross  the  border,  and 
before  daybreak  Paris  is  a  heap  of  ruins  !  Magnificent, 
gentlemen,  magnificent  .  .  .  !  Unexpectedly,  without 
any  previous  warning,  the  rain  of  dynamite  bursts 
over  the  town.  One  explosion  follows  close  on  the 
other.  Hospitals,  theatres,  schools,  museums,  public 
buildings,  private  houses,  all  are  demolished.  The 
roofs  break  in,  the  floors  sink  through  to  the  cellars, 
crumbling  ruins  block  up  the  streets.  The  sewers 
break  and  send  their  foul  contents  over  everything  .  .  . 
everything.  The  water  pipes  burst  and  there  are 
floods.  The  gas  pipes  burst,  gas  streams  out  and 
explodes  and  causes  an  outbreak  of  fire.  The  electric 


350  PRIDE  OF  WAR 

light  goes  out.  You  hear  the  sound  of  people  running 
together,  cries  for  help,  shrieking  and  wailing,  the 
splashing  of  water,  the  roaring  of  fire.  And  above  it 
all  can  be  heard  the  detonations  occurring  with  mathe- 
matical precision.  Walls  fall  in,  whole  buildings 
disappear  in  the  gaping  ground.  Men,  women,  and 
children  rush  about  mad  with  terror  among  the  ruins. 
They  drown  in  filth,  they  are  burnt,  blown  to  pieces  in 
explosions,  annihilated,  exterminated.  Blood  streams 
over  the  ruins  and  filth ;  gradually  the  shrieks  for  help 
die  down.  When  the  last  flying-machine  has  done  its 
work  and  turned  northwards  again,  the  bombardment 
is  finished.  In  Paris  a  stillness  reigns,  such  as  has 
never  reigned  there  before. 

'  We  can  imagine,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the 
French  have  carried  out  this  same  operation  against 
Berlin,  or  possibly  London.  Who  knows  what  political 
combination  the  future  may  have  in  store  ?  But  be 
that  as  it  may  it  only  remains  to  us  gratefully  to 
dedicate  ourselves  to  the  new  and  glorious  task  now  set 
before  us.  Gentlemen,  I  bare  my  head  before  the 
marvellous  and  unceasing  progress  of  mankind.'  The 
general  removed  his  cap,  and  his  voice  vibrated  with 
gratitude  to  the  merciful  Providence  which  would 
perhaps  grant  that  he  would  live  to  see  this  vision 
come  true ;  and  he  continued  :  '  In  the  face  of  this 
triumphant  progress  which  I  have  just  described,  I 
am  not  overstepping  the  mark  when  I  say  that  we  are 
approaching  perfection.' 

THE   END 


Spottiswoode  &  Co.  Ltd.,  Printers,  Colchester,  London  and  Zton 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LgJ{WF 

'001  267306    7 


